1 




^^mr' 




Thou lovehest. dearest of them all, 
Hie one, -whose smiU shon£ out aJont 
ArnirZst a zuorld- the only one! 



THS 



POEMS 



riJE HON. MRS. NORTON, 







WITH 


A 


NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR 






BT 




RUFUS W. GRISWOLD 




N E 


W Y E K : 


L E A y I 


TT & ALLEN. 




379 


BROADWAY 






\'s5 i 



By Exchange 

Army «nd N^vy ciub 



i^ M. 



CONTENTS. 



The Dream 13 

A Destiny 71 

The Creole Girl 79 

Twilijjht 90 

The Blind Man's Bride 97 

The Widow to her Son's Betrothed . ■ 100 

The Dying Hour 103 

I cannot love thee 107 

The Poet's Choice 114 

-="nre -German -S^adent's Love Song 116 

The Hunting Horn of Charlemagne J19 

The Faithful Friend ]23 

The Winter's Walk 130 

The Reprieve 134 

The Forsaken 138 

1'lie Visionarv Portrait 141 

Tiie Picture of Sappho 143 

The Sense of Beauty 14G 

The jMoiher's Heart 151 

Mav-Dav, 1H37 154 

To the Lady H. 156 

The Fallen Leaves 159 

The Aiitunm Wind 1151 

The Tryst 163 

'i'he -Banner of the C.(venanters 1(54 

The Rock of the Betrayed 169 

Weep not for him that dieth 176 

The Child of Earth 177 

The (.Christening 179 

'J'he Mother's Last Watch 1H3 

T!ie Arab's Farewell to his Horse 186 

The Fever Dream Id9 

iii 



MEMOIR C MRS. NORTON. 



died at the Cape of Good Hope, four or five 
years after leaving England, and his young and 
beautiful w^idow returned, to devote herself with 
untiring assiduity to the education of her chil- 
dren, the subject of this notice and a sister, now 
the wife of the Hon. Price Blackwood. 

These sisters exhibited an almost unexampled 
precocity. They rivalled the celebrated Missea 
Davidson of this country in the earliness and 
perfection of their mental developement. At 
twelve Caroline Sheridan wrote verses which 
even now she w^ould not be ashamed, to see in 
print, and at seventeen she finished "The 
Sorrows of Rosalie," which gave abundant 
promise of the reputation she has since acquired. 

Two years afterward she was married to the 
Hon. George Chappie Norton, a brother to Lord 
Grantley. We have spoken of her marriage as 
unfortunate. Hemans, Tighe, Landon and 
Norton ! how strange that all the great poetesses 
of England who wedded at all should have 
wedded so unhappily ! Mr. Norton proposed 
for Miss Sheridan when she was sixteen ; but 
her mother postponed the contract three years, 
th-Ht t!ie daughter might hrrself be better quali 



MEMOIR OF MRS. VORTON. 



fied to fix her choice. In this period she became 
acquainted with one whose early death alone 
prevented a union more consonant to her feel- 
ings, and at nineteen she accepted the hand of 
Mr. Norton — a man of a lower range of feelings, 
whose only nobility was in his blood. The 
marriage, as migiit have been anticipated, was 
an unblessed one. Yet they lived years to- 
gether — he not quite insensible to the honor of 
being the husband of the first woman in the 
empire, and she duteously enduring the indiffer 
ence and neglect of a man who could appreciate 
her only as the public praised. At length, in- 
cited by the political enemies of Lord Melbourne, 
then Prime Minister, he commenced legal pro- 
ceedings against that nobleirian, on a charge 
involving her infidelity. All the low arts which 
well-feed attorneys and a malignant prosecutor 
could devise were put in requisition. Forgery, 
perjury, the searching scrutiny of private pa- 
pers, the exhibition of all the most tlioughtiesa 
and trivial incidents and conversations in tho 
history of a " woman of genius living in tlio 
world," were unavailing. She passed the ordeal 
with her white robes unsullied by the slightest 



8 MEMOIR OF MRS. NORTON. 

stain. But an acquittal by the jury and the 
people poorly atoned the injustice of the base 
accusation. 

Mrs. Norton now lives in comparative retire- 
ment. She is still one of the most beautiful 
women of England. Mr. Willis, in his " Lady 
Jane," thus described her, three years ago, — 

She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes 
Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below ; 

And parted on that brow in jetty flakes 
The raven hair swept back witli wavy flow, 

Rounding a head of such a shape as makes 
The old Greek marble with the goddess glow 

Her nostril's breaching arch might threaten storm — 

But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm. 

And small teeth, glittering white, and cheek whose tea 
Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest: 

And neck set on as if to bear a head — 
May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, — 

So lightly sprang it from its snow-white bedl 
So proudly rode above the swelling breast! 

And motion, effortless as stars awaking 

And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking; 

And voice delicious quite, and smile that came 
Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled through 

These charms I've been particular to name, 
For they are, like an inventory, true, 



rv*^ 



MEMOIR OF MRS, NORTON. '♦ 

And of themselves wore stuff enough f<^fame; 

But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too, 
And brilliantly her thread of life is spun — 
In verse and beauty both, tne "Undying One!" 

'^• 
And song — for in those kindling lips there lay 

Music to wing all utterance outward breaking, 
As if upon the ivory teeth did play 

Angels, who caught the words at their awaking, 
And sped them with sweet melodies away — 

The hearts of those who listen'd with them taking. 

The poetry of Mrs. Norton is often distin- 
g-uished for a masculine energy, and always for 
grace and harmony. She has published three 
volumes, "The Sorrows of Rosalie," "The Un- 
dying One," and "The Dream and other Poems." 
The last, and the better portions of the first and 
second, are included in the present publication 



TO 

THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. 

Once more, my liarp ! once more, although I thought 
Never to wake thy silent strings again, 

A soothing dream thy gentle chords have wrought 
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain, 

Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough, 

Into the Poet's Heaven, and leaves dull grief below! 

And unto Thee — the beautiful and pure — 
Whose lot is cast amid that busy world 

Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure, 
And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd; 

To thee — whose friendship kept its equal truth 

Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'd youth«» 

I dedicate the lay. Ah ! never bard. 
In days when Poverty was twin with song; 

Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd, 
Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbor'd long; 

Not Scott's " Last Minstrel," in his trembling lays, 

Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise I 

For easy are the alms the rich man spares 

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent 
But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, 

Belief— j a spite of many a cold dissent— 

10 



DEDICATION. H 

When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart, 
From those whose bounded power, hath wrung, not 
crushed, my heart. 

Then, then, when cowards lied away my name, 
And scoffd lo see me feebly stem the tide ; 

When some w-ere kind on whom I had no claim, 
And some forsook on whom my love relied, 

And some, who might have battled for my sake, 

Stood off in doubt to see what turn " the world" would 
take — ■ 

Thou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, 
Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears ; 

The loved, the near of kin, could do no more, 
Who changed not with the gloom of varying years, 

But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, 

And blunted Slander's dart v/ith their indignant scorn, 

F.or they who credit crime are they who feel 
Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin ; [steal 

Mem'ry, not judgment, prompts the thoughts wtuch 
O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win ; 

And tales of broken truth are still believed 

Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. 

But, like a white swan down a troubled stream, 
Whose ruffling pinion liath the power to fling 

Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam 
And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, 

So Thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, 

Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide; 



12 DEDICATION. 

Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made 

To crimson with a faint false-heartud shame: 
Thou didst not shrink, — of bitter tongues afraid, 
• Who hunt in packs the object of their blame; 
To Thee the sad denial still held true, [drew 

For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy 

And, though my faint and tributary rhymes 

Add nothing to the glory of thy day, 
Yet every Poet hopes that after- times 

Shall set some value on his votive lay, — 
And I would fain one gentle deed record 
Among the many such with which thy life is stoied. 

So, when these lines, made in a mournful hour, 

Are idly open'd to the Stranger's eye, 
A dream of Thee, aroused by Fancy's power, 

Shall be the first to wander floating by ; 
And they who never saw thy lovely face, 
Shall pause, — to conjure up a vision of its grace ( 



THE DREAM 



'TwAS summer eve ; the changefal beams stiJl 

play'd 
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade ; 
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud, 
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd ; 
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone, 
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne ; 
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the 

West 
Wears the red shield above his dying breast, 
Dare not assume the loss they all desire. 
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire, 
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light 
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome night! 

So when some Chief, whose name through 

realms afar 
Was still the watchword of successful war, 
Met by the fatal hotir which waits tor all, 
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall, 
The conquerors pause to watch his parting 

breath, 
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death: 



14 THE DREAM. 

Nor dared the meed of victory to claim, 
Nor litt the standard to a meaner narn^e, 
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away, 
And leaves what was a hero, common clay. 

Oh ! Twilight I Spirit that dost render birth 
To dim enchantments ; melting Heaven with 

Earth, 
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams; 
Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet 
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward 

feet, 
Who, slow returning from his task of toil, 
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, 
And, tho' such radiance round him brightly 

glows, 
Marks the small spark his cottage window 

throws. 
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace, 
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, 
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife, 
To whom his coming is the chief event 
Of simple days in cheerful labor spent. 
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, 
And those poor cottagers have only cast 
One careless glance on all that show of pride, 
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside ; 
But him they wait for, him they welcome home, 
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come; 
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, 



THE DREAM. 15 

The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
For him the watching of that sturdy boy 
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, 
For him, — who plods his sauntering way along, 
Whistling the fragment of some village song ! 

Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light, 
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night ! 
As in impatient hope he stands apart, 
Companion'd only by his beating heart, 
And with an eager fancy oft beholds 
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds 
Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead. 
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed ! 
At length she comes. The evening's holy grace 
Mellovvs the glory of her radiant face ; 
The curtain of that dayhght faint and pale 
Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil ; 
As, turning with a bashful timid thought, 
From the dear welcome she herself hath sought 
Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky 
Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye. 

Oh ! dear to him, to all, since first the floweiji 
Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers 
Heard the low breeze along the branches play, 
And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day. 
For though that glorious Paradise be lost, 
Though earth by blighting storms be roughly 

cross' d, 
Though the long curse demands the tax of sin, 
And the day's sorrows with the day begin, 



1^ THE DREAM. 

That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still 

Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, 

The holiest hour of Earth. Then toil doth 

cease — 
Then from the yoke the oxen find release — 
Then man rests pausing from his many cares, 
And the world teems with children's sunset 

prayers ! 
Then innocent things seek out their natural rest, 
The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's 

breast ; 
The birds beneath their leafy covering creep. 
Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep , 
And angels, floating by, on radiant wings, 
Hear the low sound the breeze of evening brings, 
Catch the sweet incense as it floats along. 
The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song, 
And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar, 
As things too sacred for this fallen star. 

At such an hour, on such a summer night, 
Silent and calm in its transparent light, 
A widow'd parent watch' d her slumbering child. 
On whose young face the sixteenth summer 

smiled. 
Fair was the face she watch'dl Nor less, 

because 
Beauty's perfection seemed to make a pause. 
And wait, on that smooth brow, some further 

touch. 
Some spell from time, — the great magician,—" 

such 



THE DREAM. 17 

A.S calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom. 
And bids it wako to glory, light, and bloom. 
Girlish as yet, but with the gentle grace 
Of a young fawn in its low resting-place, 
Iler folded limbs were lying : from her hand 
A group of wild flowers — Nature's brightest 

band, 
Of all that laugh along the summer fields, 
Of all the sunny hedge-row freely yields, 
Of all that in the wild- wood darkly hide. 
Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride,— 
Sliow'd that the weariness which closed in sleep 
So tranquil, child-like, innocent, and deep, 
Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours, 
RaJ brought ; but, like a flower among the 

flowers, 
She had been wandering 'neath a summer sky, 
Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye, 
Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn, 
And the blue scabious from the sunny corn ; 
Smiling and singing like a spirit fair 
That walk'd the world, but had no dwelling 

there. 
And still (as though their faintly-scented breath 
Preserv'd a meek fideUty in death) 
Each late imprison'd blossom fondly lingers 
Within the touch of her unconscious fingers, 
Though, languidly unclasp'd, that hand no mor* 
Guards its possession of the rifled store. 

So wearily she lay ; so sweetly slept i 
So by her side fond watch the mother kept ; 
2 



^8 THE DREAM. 

And, as above her gentle child she bent, 
So like they seem'd in form and lineameBt, 
You might have deem'd her face its shad<yv» 

gave 
To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave ; 
Only in this they difFer'd ; that, while one 
Was warm and radiant as the summer sun, 
The other's smile had more a moonlight play 
For many tears had wept its glow away ; 
Yet was she fair ; of loveliness so true. 
That time, which faded, never could subdue; 
And though the sleeper, like a half-blown roso 
Show'd bright as angels in her soft repose. 
Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid, 
Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashe* 

hid— 
Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep. 
But woke up smiling, like a child's, fronc 

sleep ; — 
Though fainter lines were penciU'd on the brow, 
Which cast soft shadow on the orbs below ; 
Though deeper color flush'd her youthful cheek, 
In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek, 
And fuller seem'd the small and crimson mouth, 
With teeth like those that glitter in the south — - 
She had but youth's superior brightness, such 
As the skill'd painter gives with flattering touch 
When he v/ould picture every lingering grace 
Which once shone brighter in some copied face } 
And it was compliment, whene'er she smiled, 
To say, " Thou'rt like thy mother, my fail 

child !" 



THE DREAM. 



19 



Sweet is the image of the brooding dove!— 
Holy as Heaven a mother's tender love! 
The love of many prayers and many tears, 
Which changes not with dim declining years— 
The 07ily love which on this teeming earth 
Asks no return from Passion's wayward birth ; 
The only love that, with a touch divine, 
Displaces from the heart's most secret shrine 
The idol Self. Oh ! prized beneath thy due 
When life's untried affections all are new — 
Love, from whose calmer hope and holier rest 
(Like a fledged bird, impatient of the nest) 
The human heart, rebellious, springs to seek 
Delights more vehement, in ties more weak ; 
How strange to us appears, in after-life, 
That term of mingled carelessness and strife. 
When guardianship so gentle gall'd our pride, 
When it was holiday to leave thy side, 
When, with dull ignorance that would not learn, 
We lost those hours that never can return — 
Hours, whose most sweet communion Natura 

meant 
Should be in confidence and kindness spent. 
That we (hereafter mourning) might beheve 
[n human faith, though all around deceive ; 
Might weigh against the sad and startling crowd 
Of ills which wound the weak and chill the proud, 
Of woes 'neath which (despite of stubborn will, 
Philosophy's vain boast, and erring skill) 
The strong heart downward like a willow bends, 
Failure of love, — and treachery of friends, — 
Our recollections of the undefiled, 



20 THE DREAM. 

The sainted tie, of parent and of child I 

Oh ! happy days 1 Oh years that glided by, 
jBcarce chronicled by one poor passing sigh ! 
When the dark storm sweeps past us, and the 

soul 
Struggles with fainting strength to reach the 

goal ; 
.When the false baits that lured us only cloy, 
What would we give to grasp your vanish'd 

joy ! 
From the cold quicksands of Life's treacherous 

shore 
The backward light our anxious eyes explore, 
Measure the miles our wandering feet have come, 
Sinking heart-weary, far away from home. 
Recall the voice that whisper'd love and peace 
The smile that bid our early sorrowg cease, 
And long to bow our grieving heads, and weep 
Low on the gentle breast that lull'd us first to 

sleep ! 

Ah ! bless'd are they for whom 'mid all their 

pains 
That faithful and unalter'd love remains ; 
Who, Life wreck' d round them, — hunted from 

their rest, — 
And, by all else forsaken or distress'd, — 
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine- 
As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine ! 

Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 
My childhood'p vision of thy cahn sweet face • 



THE DKEAM. 21 

Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded 

In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe ; 
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded 

By that deep wretchedness the lonely knov/ : 
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task 

Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air, 
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask 

More than the widow's pittance then could, 
spare. 
Hidden, forgotten b}'' the great and gay. 

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, 
But the long self-denial, day by day. 

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts ! 
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, 

The young rebellious spirits crowding round, 
Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, 

And could not comfort — yet had power to 
v/ound ! 
Ah ! hov/ my selfish heart, which since hath 

grown 
Familiar with deep trials of its own, 
With riper judgment looking to the past, 
Regrets the can-eless days that flew so fast, 
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, 
And darkens every folly into crime ! 

Warriors and statesmen have their meed oi 
praise, 

And what they do or sufter men record ; 
But the long sacrifice of woman's days 

Passes without a thoaght--without a word; 
And many a holy struggle for the sake 



22 



THE DREAM. 



Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'd — 
For M'hich the anxious mind must watch dnd 
wake, 
And the strong feelings of the heart be 
sliU'd,— 
Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, 
And leaves no memory and no trace behind ! 
Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells 
In one meek heart which braves an adverse 
fate, 
Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells 
Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high 
debate: 
The Soldier dies surrounded ; could he live 
Alone to suffer, and alone to strive ? 

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom 
Shows deeper horror than a common tomb ! 
Who sleep within ? The men who would evade 
An unseen lot of which they felt afraid. 
Embarrassment of means, which work'd an- 
noy,— 
A past remorse,— a future blank of joy, — 
The sinful rashness of a blank despair, — 
These were the strokes which sent your victims 
there. 

In many a village churchyard's simple grave. 
Where all unmark'd the cypress branches wave 
In many a vault where Death could onlyolaimj 
The brief inscription of a vi^oman's name; 
Of different ranks, and different degrees, 
From daily labor to a life of ease. 



THE DREAM. 



23 



iFrom the rich wife who through the weary day 
W«pt in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey, 
To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and 

moor, 
And with her baby begg'd from door to door, — ) 
Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last 

release, 
Had lost all memory of the blessing " Peace ;" 
Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied 

years 
None saw but Him who marks the mourner's 

tears ; 
The obscurely noble ! who evaded not 
The woe which He had will'd should be their 

lot, 
But nerved themselves to bear ! 

Of such art thou, 
My Mother ! With thy calm and holy brow, 
And high devoted heart, which suffer'd still 
Unmurnmring, through each degree of ill. 
And, because Fate hath will'd that mine should 

be 
A Poet's soul (at least in my degree,)— 
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth 
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth, — 
Therefore I speaic of Thee ; that those who read 
That trust in woman, which is still my creed. 
Thy early-widow'd image may recall 
And g'-eet thy nature as the type of all I 

Enough ! With eyes of fond unwearied love 
The Mother of my story watch' d above 



24 THE DPvEAM. 

Her sleeping child ; and, as she views the grace 

And bhishing beauty of that girlish face, 

Her thoughts roam back, through change of lima 

and tide, 
Since first Heaven sent the blessing by her side. 

In that sweet vision she again receives 

The snow-white cradle, where that tiny head 
Lay, like a small bud folded in its leaves, 

Foster'd with dew by tears of fondness shed ; 
Each infantine event, each dangerous hour 

Which pass'd with threatening o'er its fragile 
form, 
Her hope, her anguish, as the tender flower 

Bloom'd to the sun, or sicken'd in the storm, 
In memory's magic mirror glide along, 

And scarce she notes the diiferent scene 
around. 
And scarce her lips refrain the cradle-song 

Which • sooth' d that infant with its lulling 
sound ! 
But the dream changes ; quiet years roll on ; 

That dawn of frail existence fleets away, 
And she. beholds beneath the summer sun 

A blessed sight ; a little child at play. 
The soft light falls upon its golden hair. 

And shows a brow intelligently mild ; 
No more a cipher in this world of care. 

Love cheers and chides that happy conscious 
child. 
No more unheeding of her watchful love, 

Pride to excel, its docile spirit stirs ; 



THE DREAM. 25 

Retire t and hope its tiny bosom in eve, 

And looks ot' fondness briglitly answer liars; 

O'er the green meadow, and the broomy hill, 
In restless joy it bounds and darts along ; 

Or through the breath of evening, low and still, 
Carols with niirthlul voice its welcome song. 

Again the vision changes; from her view 

The Child's dear love and antic mirth are 
gone; 
But, in their stead, with cheek of rose-leaf hue, 

And fair slight form, and low and silvery tone, 
Rises the sweetest spirit Thought can call 

From memory's distant worlds — the fairy 
Girl ; 
Whose heart her childish pleasures still enthrall, 

Whose unbound hair still floats in careless curl, 
But in whose blue and meekly lifted eyes. 

And in whose shy, though sweet and cordial 
smile, 
And in whose changeful blushes, dimly rise 

Shadows and lights that were not seen ere- 
while : 
Shadows and lights that speak of woman's love, 

Of all that makes or mars her fate below ; 
Mysterious prophecies, which Time nmst prove 

More bright in glory, or more dark with woe ' 
And that soft vision also wanders by. 

Melting in fond and innocent smiles away. 
Till the loved Real meets the watchful eye 

Of her who thus recall'd a former day ; 
The gentle daughter, for whose precious sake 



"^ 



26 THE DREAM. 

Her widow' d heart had struggled with its 
pain, 
And still through lonely grief refused to break, 

Because (hat tie to Earth did yet remain. 
Now, as she fondly gazed, a few meek tears 

Stole down her cheek ; for she that slumber'd 
there, 
The beautiful, the loved of many years, 

A bride betroth'd must leave her fostering 
care ; 
Woo'd in another's home apart to dwell — 
Oh ! might that other love but half as well [ 

As if the mournful wish had touch'd her heart, 
The slumbering maiden woke, with sudden 

start ; 
Turn'd, with a dazzled and intense surprise, 
On that fond face her bright, bewilder'd eyes ; 
Gazed round on each familiar object near, 
As though she doubted yet if sense was clear , 
Cover'd her brow and sigh'd, as though to wake 
Had power some spell of happy thought to break ; 
Then murmur'd, in a low and earnest tone, 
** Oh ! is that blessed dream for ever gone ?" 

Strange is the power of dreams ! Who hath 
not felt, 
When in the light such visions melt, 
How the veil'd soul, though struggling to be free, 
Ruled by that deep unfathom'd mystery, 
Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill, 
Whose shadowy influence pursues us still ? 



THE DKEAM. 2/ 

Sometimes romorse doth weigh our spirits 

down ; 
Some crime committed earns Heaven's angriest 

frown ; 
Some awful sin, in which the tempted heart 
Hath scarce, perhaps, forborne its waking part, 
Brings dreams of judgment, loud the thunders 

roll. 
The heavens shrink blacken'd Hke a flaming 

scroll ; 
We faint, we die, beneath the avenging rod, 
And vainly hide from our offended God. 
For oh I though fancy change our mortal lot. 
And rule our slumbers, Conscience sleepeth 

not ; 
That strange sad dial, by its own true light, 
Points to our thoughts, how dark soe'er the 

night, 
Still by our pillow watchful guard it keeps. 
And bids the sinner tremble while he sleeps. 

Sometimes, with fearful dangers doom'd to 

cope, 
'Reft of each wild and visionary hope, 
Stabb'd with a thousand wounds, we struggle 

still. 
The hand that tortures, powerless to kill. 
Sometimes 'mid ocean storms, in feari'ul strife. 
We stem the wave, and shrieking, gasp for life, 
While crowding round us, faces rise and gleam, 
Some known and loved, some, pictures of oui 

dream 



2S THE DREAM. 

High on the buoyant waters wildly toss'd — 
Low m its foaming caverns darkly lost — 
Those flitting forms the dangerous hour partake, 
Cling to our aid, or suffer for our sake. 
Conscious of present life, the slumbering soul 
Still floats us onward, as the billows roll, 
Till, snatch'd from death, we seem to touch the 

strand, 
Rise on the shoreward wave, and dash to land ! 
Alone we come: the forms whose wild array 
Gleam' d round us while we struggled, fade 

away — 
We know not, reck not, who the danger shared, 
But, vaguely dreaming, feel that we are spared. 

Sometimes a grief, of fond affection born, 
Gnaws at our heart, and bids us weep till morn ; 
Some anguish, copied from our waking fears, 
Wakes the eternal fount of human tears, 
Sends us to watch some vision'd bed of death. 
Hold the faint hand, and catch the parting breath, 
Where those we prized the most, and loved the 

best. 
Seem darkly sinking to the grave's long rest ; 
Lo ! in our arms they fade, they faint, they die. 
Before our eyes the funeral train sweeps by! 
We hear the orphan's sob — the widow's wail- 
O'er our dim senses woeful thoughts prevail, 
Till, with a burst of grief, the spell we break, 
And, weeping for th' imagined loss, awake. 

Ah me ! from dreams like these aroused at 
length. 



THE DREAM. 29 

How leaps the spirit to its former strength ! 
What memories crowd the newly consciMia 

brain, 
What gleams of rapture, and what starts of pain ! 
Till from the soul the heavy mists stand clear, 
All wanes and fades that seem'd so darkly drear 
The sun's fair rays those shades of death destroy 
And passionate thankfulness and tears of joy 
Swell at our hearts, as, gazing on his beam, 
We start, and cry aloud, "Thank Heaven 

'twas but a dream !" 

But there are visions of a fairer kind, 
Thoughts fondly cherish'd by the slumbering 

mind, 
Which, when they vanish from the waking 

brain. 
We close our eyes, and long to dream again. 
Their dim voice calls to our forsaken side 
'i'hose who betray'd us, seeming true and tried' 
Those whom the fast recedmg waves of time 
Have floated from us ; those who in the prime 
And glory of our young life's eagle flight 
Shone round like rays, encircling us with lighti 
And gave the bright similitude of truth 
To fair illusions — vanish'd with our youth. 
They bring again the tryst of early love, 
(That passionate hope, all other hopes above !) 
Bid the pale hair, long shrouded in the grave, 
Round the young head in floating ringlets wave 
And fill the air with echoes. Gentle words, 
Low laughter, and the singing of sweet birdss. 



so THE DREAM. 

Come round us then ; and dropping of light 

boughs, 
Whose shadow could not cool our burning brows, 
And lilac- blossoms, scenting the warm air, 
And long laburnums, fragile, bright, and fair; 
And murmuring breezes through the greeo 

leaves straying. 
And rippling waters in the sunshine playing, 
All that around our slumbering sense can fling 
The glory of some half- forgotten spring' 
They bring again the fond approving gaze 
Of old true friends, who mingled love with 

praise ; 
When Fame (that cold bright guiding-star be 

low) 
Took from affection's light a borrow' d glow — 
And, strong in all the might of earnest thought, 
Through the long studious night untired we 

wrought, 
That others might the morning hours beguile. 
With the fond triumph of their wondering smile. 
What though those dear approving smiles bo 

gone, 
VVhat though we strive neglec'ed and alone, 
What though no voice nom mourns our hope's 

alloy, 
Nor in that hour of triumph gives us joy ? 
In dreams the days return when this was not, 
When strong affection sooth'd our toilsome lot: 
Che^r'd, loved, admonish'd, lauded, we aspire. 
And the sick soul regains its former fire. 



THE DREAM. 31 

Beneath the influence of this fond spell, 
/lappy, contented, bless'd, we seem to dwell ; 
Sweet faces shine with love's own tender ray, 
Which frown, or coldly turn from us, by day ; 
The lonely orphan hears a parent's voice ; 
Sad childless mothers once again rejoice ; 
The poor deserted seems a happy bride ; 
And the long parted wander side by side. 

Ah, vain deceit; Awakening with a start, 
Sick grows the beatings of the troubled heart j 
Silence, like some dark mantle, drops around, 
Quenching th' imagined voice's welcome sound, 
Again the soul repeats its old farewells. 
Again recalls sad hours and funeral knells ; 
Again, as daylight opens on their view, 
The orphan shrinks, the mother mourns anew; 
Till clear we feel, as fades the morning star, 
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd we are ! 

And other dreams exist, more vague and 

bright 
Than memory ever brought to cheer the night ;— 
Most to the young and happy do they come, 
To those who know no shelter but of home ; 
To those of whom the inspired writer spoke. 
When from his lips the words prophetic broke. 
Which (conscious of the strong and credulous 

spell 
Experience only in the heart can quell) 
Promised the nearer glimpse of perfect truth 
Not to cold wisdom but to fervent youth 



32 THE DREAiffi. 

Each, in their measure, caught its fitful gleams— 
The young saw visions, and the old dream'd 
dreams. 

The young ! Oh ! what should wandering 
fancy bring 
In life's first spring-time but the thoughts of 

spring ? 
World without winter, blooming amaranth 

bowers, 
Garlands of brightness wreath'd from change- 
less flowers ; 
Where shapes like angels wander to and fro, 
Unwing'd, but glorious, in the noontide glow, 
Which steeps the hills, the dales, the earth, the 

sea, 
In one soft flood of golden majesty. 
In this world, — so create, — no sighs nor tears,— 
No sadness brought wit h lapse of varying years, — 
No cold betrayal of the trusting heart, — 
No knitting up of love fore-doom'd to part, — 
No pain, deformity, nor pale disease, — 
No wars, — no tyranny, — nor fears that freeze 
The rapid current of the restless blood, — 
Nor effort scorn'd, — nor act misunderstood, — 
No dark remorse for ever-haunting sin, — 
But all at peace without, — at rest within ; 
And hopes which gild Thought's wildest vvaldr^* 

hours, 
Scatter' d around us carelessly as flowers. 

Oh ! Paradise, in vain didst thou depart* 
Thine image still is stamp' d on every heart ! 






THE DREAM. 33 

Though mourning man in vain may seek to trace 
The site of that which was his dweUing-pIace, 
Though the four ghttering rivers now divide 
No reahns of beauty with their rolUng tide. 
Each several hfe yet opens with the view 
Of that unbhghted world where Adam drew 
I'he breath of being: in each several mind, 
However cramp'd, and fetter'd, and confined, 
The innate power of beauty folded lies, 
And, like a bud beneath the summer skies, 
Blooms out in youth through many a radiant day 
Though in life's winter frost it dies away. 

From such a vision, bright with all the fame 
Her youth, her innocence, her hope could frame, 
The maiden woke : and, when her shadowy 

gaze 
Had lost the dazzled look of wild amaze 
Turn'd on her mother when she first awoke. 
Thus to her questioning glance she answering- 

spoke : — 

" Methought, oh ! gentle Mother, by thy side 
I dwelt no more as now, but through a wide 
And sweet world wander'd ; nor even then alone ; 
For ever in that dream's soft light stood one, 
[ know not who, — yet most familiar seem'd 
Tlie fond companionship of which I dream'd ; 
A Brother's love, is but a name to me ; 
A Father's brighten'd not my infancy ; 
To me in childhood's years, no stranger's face 
Took, from long habit, friendship's holy grace* 
3 



54 THE DREAM. 

My life hath still been Icne, and needed not, 
Heaven knows, more perfect love than was my 

lot, 
In thy dear heart : how dream'd I then, sweet 

Mother, 
Of any love but thine, who knew no other ? 

" We seem'd, this shadow and myself, to be 
Together by the blue and boundless sea ; 
No settled home was present to my thought — 
No other form my clouded fancy brought ; 
'I'his one Familiar Presence still beguiled 
My every thought, and look'd on me and smiled, 
Fair stretch'd in beauty lay the glittering strand, 
With low green copses sloping from the land ; 
And tangled underwood and sunny fern. 
And flowers whose humble names none cared 

to learn, 
Small starry wild flowers, white and gold and 

blue, 
With leaves turn'd crimson by the autumnal hue, 
Bask'd in the fervor of the noontide glow, 
Wnose hot rays pierced the thirsty roots below. 
The floating nautilus rose clear and pale, 
As though a spirit trimm'd its fairy sail. 
White and transparent; and beyond it gleam'd 
Such light as never yet on Ocean beam'd : 
And pink-lipp'd shells, and many color'd weeds. 
And long brown bulbous things like jaspar beads, 
And glistening pearls in beauty faint and fair, 
And all things strange, and wonderful, and rar6, 
Whose true existence travellers make known. 



THE HREAM. 35 

Seem'd scatter'd there, and easily my own. 
And then we wove our ciphers in the sands, 
All fondly intertwined by loving .lands ; 
And laugh' d to see the rustling snow-white 

spray 
Creep o'er the names, and wash their trace 

away. 
And the storm came not, though the white foam 
curl'd 
In lines of brightness far along the coast ; 
Though many a ship, with swelling sails un- 
furl' d. 
From the mid-sea to sheltering haven cross'd; 
Though the wild billows heaved, and rose, and 
broke, 
One o'er the other with a restless sound, 
And the deep spirit of the wind awoke, 

Ruffling in wn^ath each glassy verdant mound ; 
While onward roU'd that army of huge waves, 

Until the foremost, with exulting roar. 
Rose, proudly crested, o'er his brother slaves, 
And dash'd triumphant on the groaning shore ! 
For then the Moon rose up. Night's mournful 
Queen, 
' Walking with white feet o'er the troubled 
Sea,' 
And all grew still again, as she had been 

Heaven's messenger to bring Tranquihty ; 
Till, pale and tender, on the glistening main 
She sank and smiled like one who loves in vam. 
And still we linger'd by that shadowy strand, 
Happy, yet full of thought, hand hiik'd in hand 



36 THE DREAM. 

The hush'd waves rippling softly at our feet, 
The night-breeze freshening o'er the summer's 

heat ; 
With our hearts beating, and our gazing eyes 
Fix'd on the star-light of those deep blue skies, 
Blessing ' the year, the hour, the place the 

time ;' 
While sounded, faint and far, some turret's 

midnight chime. 

*' It pass'd, that vision of the Ocean's might ! 

I know not how, for in my slumbering mind 
There was no movement, all was shifting hght, 
Through which we floated with the wander- 
ing wind ; 
And, still together, in a different scene. 
We look'd on England's woodland, fresh and 
green. 

" No perfume of the cultured rose was there, 
Wooing the senses with its garden smell, — ■ 
Nor snow-white lily, — called so proudly fair, 
Though by the poor man's cot she loves to 
dwell, 
Nor finds his little garden scant of room 
To bid her stately buds in beauty bloom ; — 
Nor jasmin, with her pale«tars shining through 
The myrtle darkness of her leaf's green hue,— ■ 
Nor helitrope, whose gray and heavy wreath 
Mimics the orchard blossoms' fruity breath — 
Nor clustering dahlia, with its scentless flower 



TKE DREAM. 



37 



Cheating the heart through autumn's faded 

hours, — 
Nor bright chrysanthimum, whose train'd array 
Still makes tlie rich man's winter path look gay^ 
And bows its hardy head when wild winds blow, 
To free its petals from the fallen snow ; — 
Nor yet carnation;" — 

(Thou, beloved of all 
The plants that thrive at Art or Nature's call, 
By one who greets thee with a weary sigh 
As the dear friend of happy days gone by ; 
By one who names thee last; but loves thee 

first, 
Of all the flowers a garden ever nursed ; 
The mute remembrancer and gentle token 
Of hnks which heavy hands have roughly 

broken, 
Welcomed through many a Summer with the 

same 
Unalter'd gladness as when first ye came, 
And welcomed still, though — as in later years 
We often welcome pleasant things — with tears!) 

I wander ! In the Dream these had no place — 
Nor Sorrow : — all was Nature's ireshest grace. 

"There, wild geranium, with its woolly stem 
And aromatic breath, perfumed the glade ; 

A.nd fairy speedwell, like some sapphire gem, 
Lighted with purple sparks the hedge-row'g 
shade ; 

And woodbine, with her tinted calyxes, 



38 THE DREAM. 

And dog-rose glistening with the dews of 

morn, 
And tangled wreaths of tufted clematis, 

Whose blossoms pale the careless eye ma.y 

scorn, 
(As green and light her fairy mantles fall 
To hide the rough hedge or the crumbling wall/ 
But in whose breast the laden wild-bees dive 
For the best riches of their teeming hive : 
" There, sprang the sunny cricket ; there, 

was spread 
The fragile silver of the spider's thread, 
Stretching from blade to blade of emerald grass, 
Unbroken, fill some human footstep pass ; 
There, by the rippling stream that murmur'd on, 
Now seen, now hidden — half in light, half Sun — ■ 
The darting dragon-fly, with sudden gleam, 
Shot, as it went, a gold and purple beam ; 
And the fish leap'd within the deeper pool, 
And the green trees stretch'd out their branches 

cool, 
Where many a bird hush'd in her peopled nest 
The unfledged darlings of her fcather'd breast, 
Listening her mate's clear song, in that sweet 

grove 
Where all around breathed happiness and love I 

" And while we talk'd the summer hours llew 

fast, 
As hours may fly, with those whose love is 

young : 
Who foal no future, and who know no past 



THE DREAiM. 39 

^Dating existence from the hope that sprung 
Up in their hearts with such a sudden hght, 
That all beyond shows dark and blank, as night. 
" Until methought we trod a wide flat heath, 

Where yew and cypress darkly seem'dto 
wave 
O'er countless tombs, so beautiful, that death 

Seem'd here to make a garden of the grave ! 
All that is holy, tender, full of grace, 

Was sculptured on the monuments around. 
And many a line the musing eye could trace, 

Which spoke unto the heart without a sound 
There lay the warrior and the son of song. 

And there — in silence till the judgment-day- 
The orator, whose all-persuading tongue 

Had moved the nations with resistless sway 
There slept pale men whom science taught to 
climb 

Restlessly upward all their laboring youth ; 
Who left, half conquer'd, secrets which in time 

Burst on mankind in ripe and glorious truth. 
He that had gazed upon the steadfast stars, 

And could foretell the dark eclipse's birth, 
And when red comets in their blazing cars 

Should sweep above the awed and troubled 
earth : — 
He that had sped brave vessels o'er the seas, 

Which swiftly bring the wanderer to his homo, 
Uncanvass'd ships, which move without n 
breeze, 

Their bright wheels dashing through the 
ocean foam : — 



10 



THE DREAM. 



All, who in this life's bounded brief career 

Had shone amongst or served their fellow- 
men, 
And left a name embalm'd in glory here, 

Lay calmly buried on that magic plain. 
And he who wander'd with me in my dream, 

Told me their histories as we onward went, 
Till the grave shone with such a hallow'd beam, 

Such pleasure with their memory seem'd blent, 
That, when we.look'd to heaven, our upward 

eyes 
With no funeral sadness mock'd the skies ! 



" Then, change of scene, and time, and place 
once more ; 
And by a Gothic window, richly bright, 
Whose stain'd armorial bearings on the floor 

Flung the quaint tracery of their color'd light, 
We sate together : his most noble head 

Bent o'er the storied tome of other days. 
And still he commented on all we read, 
And taught me what to love, and what to 
praise, 
Then Spenser made the sumrner-doy seem brief, 

Or Milton sounded with a loftier song. 
Then Covvper charm' d, with lays of gentle 
grief. 
Or rough old Dryden roll'd the hour along. 
Or, in his varied beauty dearer still, 
Sweet Shakspeare changed the world around at 

will ; 
And we forgot the sunshine of that room 



THE DREAM. 41 

To sit with Jacquez in the forest gloom ; 
To look abroad with JuUet's anxious eye 
For her boy-lover 'neath the moonlight sky; 
Stand with Macbeth upon the haunted heath 
Or weep for gentle Desdemona's death; 
Watch, on bright Cydnus' v/ave, the glittering 

sheen 
And silken sails of Egypt's wanton queen ; 
Or roam with Ariel through that island strange 
Where spirits, and not men, were wont to range, 
Still struggling on through brake, and bush, and 

hollow, 
Hearing that sweet voice calling — ' Follow ! 

follow !' 

"Nor were there wanting lays of other lands, 
For these were all familiar in his hands : 
And Dante's dream of horror work'd its spell,— 
And Petrarch's' sadness on our bosom fell, — • 
And prison'd Tasso's — he, the coldly-loved, 
The madly-loving ! he, so deeply proved 
By many a year of darkness, like the grave, 
For her who dared not plead, or would not save, 
For her who thought the poet's suit brought 

shame, 
Whose passion hath immortalized her name ! 
And Egmont, with his noble heart betray'd, — • 
And Carlos, haunted by a murder'd shade, — 
And Faust's strange legend, sweet and wond- 

'rous wild, 
Stole many a tear : — Creation's loveliest child 
Guileless, ensnared, and tempted Margaret, 



42 THE aREAM. 

Who could peruse thy fate with eyes unwet? 

" Then, through the lands we read of, far 
away, 
The vision led me all a summer's day : 
And we look'd round on southern Italy, 

Where her dark head the graceful cypress 
rears 
In arrowy straightness and soft majesty, 

And the sun's face a mellower glory wears ; 
Bringing, where'er his warm light richly shines, 
Sweet odors from the gum-distilling pines; 
And casting o'er white palaces a glow, 
Like morning's hue on mountain-peaks of snow. 

"Those palaces! how fair their columns 
rose I 
Their courts, cool fountains, and wide porticos! 
And ballustraded roofs, whose very form 
Told what an unknown stranger was the storm I 
In one of these v/e dwelt : its painted walls 

A master's hand had been employed to trace ; 
Its long cool range of shadowy marble halls 

Was <iU'd whh statues of most living grace ; 
While on its ceiUng roll'd the fiery car 
Of the bright day-god, chasing night afar, — 
Or Jove's young favorite, toward Olympus' 

height 
Soar'd with the Eagle's dark majestic flight, — 
Or fair Apollo's harp seem'd freshly strung, 
h.[\ heaven group'd round him, listening while 
he sung. 



THE DREAM. 43 

** So, in the garden's plann'd and planted 
bound 
All wore the aspect of enchanted ground ; 
Thick orange-groves, close arching over head, 
Shelter'd the paths oar footsteps loved to tread; 
Or iiex-trees shut out, with shadosv sweet, 
Th' oppressive splendor of the noontide heat. 
Through the bright vista, at each varying turn, 
Glearn'd the while statue, or the graceful urn ; 
And, paved with many a curved and twisted line 
Of lair Mosaic's strange and quaint design, 
Terrace on terrace rose, with steep so sliglit. 
That scarce the pausing eye inquired the height, 
Till St retch' d beneath in far perspective lay 
The glittering city and the deep blue bay I 
Then as we turn'd again to groves and bowers, 
(Rich with the perfume of a thousand flowers,) 
The sultry day was cheated of its force 
By the sweet winding of some streamlet's 

course : 
From sculptured arch, and ornamented walls, 
Rippled a thousand tiny waterfalls. 
While here and there an open basin gave 
Rest to the eye and freshness to the wave ; 
Here, high above the imprison'd waters, stood 
Some imaged 2saiad, guardian of the flood ; 
There, in a cool and grotto-like repose. 
The sea-born goddess from her shell arose ; 
Or river-god his fertile urn display'd, 
Gushing at distance through the long arcade,— 
Or Triton, hinting his wild conch on high, 
Spouted his silver tribute to the sky, 



44 THE DREAM. 

Or, lovelier still, (because to Nature true, 
Even in the thought creative genius drew,) 
Some statue-nymph, her bath of beauty o'er, 
Stood gently bending by the rocky shore. 
And, like Bologna's sweet and graceful dream, 
From her moist hair wrung out the living stream. 

" Bright was the spot ! and still we linger'd on 
Unwearied, till the summer-day was done ; 
Till He, who, when the morning dew was wet. 
In glory rose — in equal glory set. 
Fair sank his light, unclouded to the last, 
And o'er that land its glow of beauty cast ; 
And the sweet breath of evening air went forth 
To cool the bosom of I he fainting earth ; 
To bid the pale-leaved olives lightly wave 
Upon their seaward slope (whose waters lave 
With listless gentleness the golden strand, 
And scarcely leave, and scarce return to land ;'i 
Or with its wings of freshness, wandering round, 
Visit the heights of many a villa crown'd. 
Where the still pine and cypress, side by side. 
Look from their distant hills on Ocean's tide. 

"The cypress and the pine ! Ah, still I see 
These thy green children, lovely Italy ! 
Nature's dear favorites, allow'd to wear 
Their summer hue throughout the circling year 
And oft, when wandering out at even-time 
To watcl. the sunsets of a colder clime, 
As the dim landscape fades and grows more faint 



THE DREAM. 45 

Fancy's sweet power a different fcene shall 

paint ; 
Enrich with deeper tints the colors given 
To the pale beauty of our English heaven, — 
Bid purple mountains rise among the clouds, 
Or deem their mass some marble palace 

shrouds, — 
Trace on the red horizon's level line, 
In outhnes dark, the high majestic pine, — 
And hear, amid the groups of English trees, 
His sister cypress murmuring to the breeze ! 

" Never again shall evening, sweet and still, 
Gleam upon river, mountain, rock, or hill, — 
Never again shall fresh and budding spring, 
Or brighter summer, hue of beauty bring, 
In this, the clime where 'tis my lot to dwell, 
But shall recall, as by z. magic spell, 
Thy scenes, dear land of poetry and song! 
Bid thy fair statues on my memory throng ; 
Thy glorious pictures gleam upon my sight 
Like fleeting shadows o'er the summer light 
And send my haunted heart to dwell once more, 
Clad and entranced by thy delightful shore— 
Thy shore, where rolls that blue and tideless sea, 
Bright as thyself, thou radiant Italy ' 

"And there (where Beauty's spirit sure had 

birth, 
Though she I.ath wander'd since upon the 

earth. 
And scatter'd, as she pass'd, some sparks of 

thought, 



46 



TFE DREAM. 



Such as of old her sons of genius wrought. 

To show what strength the immortal soul can 

wield 
E'en here, in this its dark and narrow field, 
And fills us with a fond inquiring thirst 
To see that land which claim' d her triumphs 

first) 
Music was brought — with soft impressive 

power — 
To fill with varying joy the varying hour. 
We welcomed it ; for welcome still to all 
It comes, in cottage, court, or lordly hall; 
And in the long bright summer evenings, oft 
We sate and listened to some measure soft 
From many instruments ; or, faint and lone, 
(Touch'd by his gentle hand, or by my own,) 
The little lute its chorded notes would send 
Tender and clear; and with our voices blend 
Cadence so true, that, when the breeze swept by. 
One mingled echo floated on its sigh! 



" And still as day by day we saw depart, 
T was the living idol of his heart: 
How to make joy a portion of the air 
That breathed around me, seem'd his only care. 
For me the harp was strung, the page was turn'd ; 
For me the morning rose, the sunset burn'd ; 
For me the Spring put out her verdant suit; 
For me the Summer flower, the Autumn fruit , 
The very world seem'd mine, so mighty strove 
For my contentment, thai enduring love. 



THE DREAM. 4" 

*' I see hirfi still, dear mother ! Still I hear 
That voice so deeply soft, so strangely clear; 
Still in the air wild wandering echoes float, 
And bring my dream's sweet music note for 

note ! 
Oh ! shall those sounds no more my fancy bless, 
Which fill my heart and on my memory press I 
Shall I no more those sunset clouds behold, 
Floating like bright transparent thrones of gold ? 
The skies, the seas, the hills of glorious blue ; 
The glades and groves, with glories shining 

through ; 
The bands of red and purple, richly seen 
Athwart the sky of pale, faint, gem-like green ; 
When the breeze slept, the earth lay hush'dand 

still. 
When the low sun sank slanting from the hill, 
And slow and amber-tinged the moon uprose, 
To watch his farewell hour in glory close? 
Is all that radiance past — gone by forever — 

And- must there in its stead forever be 
The gray, sad sky, the cold and clouded river, 

And dismal dwellings by the wintry sea? 
E'er half a summer, altering day by day, 
In fickle brightness, here, hath pass'd away ! 
And was that form (whose love might still sustain) 
Naught but a vapor of the dreaming brain? 
Would I had slept for ever I" 

Sad she sigh'd ; 
To whom the mournful mother thus replied : — 

"Upbraid not Heaven, whose wisdom thus 
would rule 



IS 



THE DREAM. 



A world whose changes are the soul's best 

school : 
All dream like thee, and 'tis for Mercy's sake 
That those who dream the wildest, soonest 

wake ; 
All deem Perfection's system would be found 
In giving earthly sense no stint or bound ; 
All look for happiness beneath the sun, 
And each expects what God hath given to none' 

" In what an idle luxury of joy 
Would thy spoil'd heart its useless hours em- 
ploy ! 
In what a selfish loneliness of hght 
Wouldst thou exist, read we thy dream aright ! 
How hath thy sleeping spirit broke the chain 
Which knits thy human lot to other's pain. 
And made this world of peopled millions seem 
P^or thee and for the lover of thy dream ! 



" Think not my heart with cold indifference 

heard 
The various feelings which in thine have stirr'd, 
Or that its sad and weary currents know 
P'aint sympathy, except for human woe : 
Well have the dormant echoes of my breast 
Answer'd the joys thy gentle voice express'd ; 
Conjured a vision of the stately mate 
With whom the flattering vision link'd thy fate J 
And follow' d thee through grove and woodland 

wild. 



THE DKEAM. 49 

Where so much natural beauty round thee 
smiled. 



*' Whatman so worldly-wise, or chill'd by age, 
Who, bending o'er the faint descriptive page, 
Recalls not such a scene in some far nook. — 
(Whereon his eyes, perchance, no more shall 

look ;) 
Some hawthorn copse, some gnarl'd majestic 

tree, 
The favorite play-place of his infancy ? 
Who has not felt for Cowper's sweet lament, 
When twelve years' course their cruel change 

had sent ; 
When his fell'd poplars gave no further shade, 
And low on earth the blackbird's nest was laid ; 
When in a desert sunshine, bare and blank, 
Lay the green field and river's mossy bank ; 
And melody of bird or branch no more 
Rose vyith the breeze that swept along the shore ? 

" Few are the hearts, (nor theirs of kindliest 
frame,) 
On whom fair Nature holds not such a claim ; 
And oft, in after-life, some simple thing — 
A bank of primroses in early spring— 
The tender scent which hidden violets yield— 
The sight of cowslips in a meadow-field — 
Or young laburnum's pendant yellow chain — 
May bring the favorite play-place back again 

4 



50 THE DREAM. 

Our youthfi/l mates are gone ; some dead, somo 

changed, 
With whom that pleasant spot was gladly ranged ; 
Ourselves, perhaps, more alter'd e'en than 

they — 
But there still blooms the blossom-showering 

May ; 
There still along the hedge-row's verdant line 
The linnet sings, the thorny brambles twine ; 
Still in the copse a troop of merry elves 
Shout — the gay image of our former selves ; 
And still, with sparkling eyes and eager hands 
Some rosy urchin high on tiptoe stands, 
And plucks the ripest berries from the bough— 
Which tempts a different generation now ! 

" What though no real beauty haunt that spot 
By graver minds beheld and noticed not ? 
Can we forget that once to our young eyes 
It wore the aspect of a Paradise ? 
No ; still around its hallow'd precinct lives 
The fond mysterious charm that memory gives ; 
The man recalls the feelings of the boy, 
And clothes the meanest flower with freshness 
and with joy. 

*' Nor think by elder hearts forgotten quite 
Love's whisper'd words ; youth's sweet and 

strange delight ; 
They live — though after-memories fade away ; 
They live to cheer life's slow dechning day j 



THE DREAM. 51 

Haunting the widow by her lonely hearth, 
As, meekly smiling at her children's mirth, 
She spreads her fair ihin hands toward the fire, 
To seek the warmth their slacken'd veins re- 
quire : 
Or gladdening her to whom Heaven's mercy 

spares 
Pier old companion with his silver hairs ; 
And while he dozes — changed, and dull, and 

weak — 
And his hush'd grandchild signs, but dares not 

speak, — 
Bidding her watch, with many a tender smile, 
The wither'd form which slumbers all the while 

"Yes! sweet the voice of those we loved! 

the tone 
Which cheers our memory as we sit alone, 
And will not leave us ; the o'er-mastering force, 
Whose under-current' s strange and hidden 

course 
Bids some chance word, by colder hearts forgot, 
Return — and still return — yet weary not 
The ear which wooes its sameness ! How, 

when Death 
Hath stopi),d with ruthless hands some precious 

breath. 
The memory of the voice he hath destroy'd 
Lives in our souls, as in an aching void ! 
How, through the varying fate of after-years. 
When stifled sorrow weeps but casual tears. 
If some stray tone seem lihethe voice we know 



52 THE CREAM. 

The heart leaps up with answer faint and true ! 
Greeting again that sweet, long-vanish'd sound, 
As, in earth's nooks of ever-haunted ground, 
Strange accident, or man's capricious will, 
Wakes the lone echoes, and they answer still i 

" Oh I what a shallow fable cheats the age, 
When the lost lover, on the nnotley stage, 
Wrapp'd from his mistress in some quaint dis» 

_ guise. 
Deceives her ears, because he cheats her eyes ! 
Rather, if all could fade which charm'd us 

first, — 
If, by some magic stroke, some plague-spot 

cursed, 
All outward semblance left the form beloved 
A wreck unrecognised, and half disproved, 
At the dear sound of that familiar voice 
Her waken'd heart should tremble and rejoice, 
Leap to its faith at once,— and spurn the doubt 
Which, on such showing, barr'd his welcome 

out! 

" And if even words are sweet, what, what is 
song, 
When hps we love, the melody prolong? 
How thrills the soul, and vibrates to that lay, 
Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away ! 
How, to the cadence of the simplest words 
That ever hung upon the wild harp's chorda, 
The breathless heart lies listening ; as it felt 
All life within it on that music dwelt. 



THE DREAM. 



»a 



And hush'd the beating pulse's rapid power 
By its own will, for that enchanted hour ! 



*' Ay ! then to those who love the science well, 
Music becomes a passion and a spell I 
Music, the tender child of rudest times, 
The gentle naiive of a' 1 lands and climes ; 
"Who hymns alike man's cradle and his grave, 
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave ; 
Cheers the poor peasant, who his native hills 
With wild I'yrolean echoes sweetly fills ; 
Inspires the Indian's low monotonous chant, 
Weaves skilful melodies, for Luxury's haunt; 
And still, through all these changes, lives the 

same, 
Spirit without a home, without a name, 
Coming, where all is discord, strife, and sin, 
To prove some innate harmony within 
Our listening souls ; and lull the heaving breast 
With the dim vision of an unknown rest ! 



" But, dearest child, though many a joy be 

given 
By the pure bounty of all-pitying Heaven, — 
Though sweet emotions in our hearts have birth. 
As flowers are spangled on the lap of earth, — 
Thouyh, with the flag of Hope and Triumph 

hung 
High o'er our heads, we start when life is young, 
And onward cheer'd, by sense, and sight, and 

sound, 



54 



THE DREAM. 



Like a launch'd bark, we enter with a bound , 
Yet mast the dark cloud lour, the tempest fall, 
And the same chance of shipwreck waits for ail. 
Happy are they who leave the harboring land 
TN'ot for a summer voyage, hand in hand, 
Pleasure's light slaves : but with an earnest eye 
Kxploring all the future of their sky ; 
That so, when Life's career at length is past, 
To the right haven they may ^leer at last, 
And safe from hidden rock, or open gale, 
Lay by the oar, and furl the slacken'd sail, — 
To anchor deeply on that tranquil shore 
Where vexing storms can never reach them 
more ! 



" Wouldst thou be singled out by partial 
Heaven 
The ONE to whom a cloudless lot is given ? 
Look round the world, and see what fate is there, 
Which justice can pronounce exempt from care : 
Though bright they bloom to empty outward show 
There lurks in each some canker- worm of w^oe ; 
Still by some thorn the onward step is cross'd, 
Nor least repining those who 're envied most : 
The poor have struggling, toil, and wounded 

pride. 
Which seeks, and seeks in vain, its rags to hide ; 
The rich, cold jealousies, intrigues, and strife, 
And heart-sick discontent which poisons liie ; 
The loved are parted by the hand of Death, 
The hated live to curse each other's breath : 
The wealthy noble mourns the want of heirs 



( ' 

THE DREAM. 65 

While, each the object of incessant prayers, 
Gay, hardy sons, around the widow's board, 
With careless smiles devour her scanty hoard; 
And hear no sorrow in her stifled sigh, 
And see no terror in her anxious eye, — 
While she in fancy antedates the time 
When, scatter'd far and wide in many a clime, 
These heirs to nothing but their Father's name 
Must earn their bread, and struggle hard for 

fame ; 
To sultry India sends her fair-hair'd boy — 
Sees the dead desk another's youth employ — 
And parts with one to sail the uncertain main, 
Never perhaps on earth to meet again ! 

" Nor e'en does Love, whose fresh and radi- 
ant beam 
Gave added brightness to thy wandering dream. 
Preserve from bitter touch of ills unknown, 
But rather brings strange sorrows of its own. 
Various the ways in which our souls are tried ; 
Love often fails where most our faith relied ; 
Some wayward heart may win, without a 

thought. 
That which thine own by sacrifice hath bought ; 
May carelessly aside the treasure cast, 
And yet be madly worshipp'd to the last ; 
Whilst thou, forsaken, grieving, left to pine, 
Vainly may'st claim his plighted faith as thine : 
Vainly his idol's charms with thine compare. 
And know thyself as young, as bright, as fau" 
V^ainly in jealous pangs consume ihy day, 



56 THE BREAM. 

And waste the sleepless night in tears away 
Vainly with forced indulgence strive to smile 
In the cold world, heart-broken all the while, 
Or from its glittering and unquiet crowd, 
Thy brain on fire, thy spirit crush'd and bow'd. 
Creep home unnoticed, there to weep alone, 
Mock'd by a claim which gives thee not thine 

own, 
Which leaves thee bound through all thy blight- 
ed youth 
To him whose perjured soul hath broke its truth; 
While the just world, beholding thee bereft, 
Scorns — not his sin — but thee, for being left ' 

" Ah ! never to the Sensualist appeal, 
Nor deem his frozen bosom aught can feeL 
Affection, root of all fond memories. 
Which bids what once hath charm'd for ever 

please. 
He knows not : all thy beauty could inspire 
Was but a sentiment of low desire : 
If from thy cheek the rose's hue be gone, 
How should love stay which loved for that alone f 
Or, if thy youthful face be still as bright 
As when it first entranced his eager sight. 
Thou art the same ; there is thy fault, thy crime, 
Which fades the charms yet spared by rapid 

Time, 
Talk to him of the happy days gone by. 
Conceal'*] aversion chills his shrinking eye; 
While ip thine agony thou still dost rave, 
Impatico'. wishes doom thee tc ^he grave ; 



THE DREAM. 



67 



And if his cold and selfish thought had power 

T' accelerate the fatal final hour, 

The silent murder were already done, 

And th}' while tomb would glitter in the sun. 

What wouldst thou hold by ? What is it to him 

That for his sake thy weeping eyes are dim ? 

His pall'd and weary senses rove apart, 

And for his heart —thou never hadst his heart. 



" True, there is better love, whose balance 

just 
Mingles Soul's instinct with our grosser dust, 
And leaves affection, strengthening day by day, 
Firm to assault, impervious to decay- 
To such, a star of hope thy love shall be 
Wliose steadfast light he still desires to see ; 
And age shall vainly mar thy beauty's grace, 
Or wantons plot to steal into thy place. 
Or wild Temptation, from her hidden bowers, 
Fling o'er his path her bright but poisonous 

■flowers, — 
Dearer to him than all who thus beguile. 
Thy faded face, and thy familiar smile ; 
Thy glance, which still hath welcomed him for 

years. 
Now bright with gladness, and now dim with 

tears ! 
And if (for we are vi^eak) division come 
On wings of discord to that happy home, 
Soon is the painful hour of anger past. 
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last ; 
And, hke some river's bright abundant tide 



58 



THE DREAM. 



Which art or accident hath forced aside, 
The well-springs of affection, gushing o'er, 
Back to their natural channels flow once more, 

'• Ah ! sad it is when one thus link'd departs ! 
When Death, that mighty severer of true hearts, 
Sweeps through the halls so lately loud in mirth. 
And leaves pale Sorrow weeping by the hearth ! 
Bitter it is to wander there alone, 

To fill the vacant place, the empty chair, 
With a dear vision of the loved one gone, 

And start to see it vaguely melt in air ! 
Bitter to find all joy that once hath been 

Double its value when 'tis pass'd away, — 
To feel the blow which Time should make less 
keen 

Increase its burden each successive day, — 
To need good counsel, and to miss the voice, 

The ever trusted, and the ever true. 
Whose tones were wont to cheer our faltering 
choice, 

And show what holy Virtue bade us do, — 
To bear deep wrong and bow the widow'dhead 

In helpless anguish, no one to defend ; 
Or worse, — in lieu of him, the kindly dead, 

Claim faint assistance from some lukewarm 
friend — 
Yet scarce perceive the extent of all our loss 
Till the fresh tomb be green with gathering 

moss — 
Till many a morn have met our sadden'd eyes, 

With none to say " Good morrow;" — many 
an eve 



THE DREAM. 6$ 

Sesid It 3 red glory through the tranquil skies, 
Eacn bringing with it deeper cause to grieve ! 

" This is a destiny which may be thine — 
The common grief: God will'd it should be 

mme : 
Short was the course our happy love had run, 
And hard ii was to say ' Thy will be done !' 

"Yet those whom man, not God, hath part- 
ed, know 
A heavier pang, a more enduring woe ; 
No softening memory mingles with their tears, 
Still the wound rankles on through dreary 

years, 
Still the heart feels, in bitterest hours of blame, 
It dares not curse the long-familiar name ; 
Still, vainly free, through many a cheerless day. 
From weaker ties turn helplessly away, 
Sick for the smiles that bless'd its home of yore, 
The natural joys of life that come no more ; 
And, all bewilder'd by the abyss, whose gloom 
Dark and impassable as is the tomb. 
Lies stretch'd between the future and the 

past, — ■ 
Sinks into deep and cold despair at last. 

" Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death, 
Each varied ill that wails on human breath, 
Rather than bid thee linger out thy life 
In the long toil of such unnatural strife. 
To wander through the world unreconciled, 



60 THE DREAM. 

Heart wsary as a spirit-broken cliild, 
And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven 
If thou could'st die — forgiving and lorgiven,— 
Or with a feverish hope of anguish born, 
(Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn 
Of all the cruel foes who 'twixt ye stand, 
Holding thy heartstrings with a reckless hand,) 
Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, 
And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong ! 
Into the aching depths of thy poor heart 

Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain. 
And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, 

And burn like fire through thy bewilder'd 
brain. 
Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal 
To teach thy fellow-creature how to feel, — 
Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening 

tears, — 
Recall the hopes, the influences of years,-— 
Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground. 
Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing' 

wound, — 
Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow's truth, 
By all the softening memories of youth — 
By every hope that cheer'd thine earlier day — 
By every tear that washes wrath away — 
By every old remembrance long gone by — 
By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; 
And learn at length how deep and stern a blow 
Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show ' 

" Oh ! weak to suffer, savage to inflict. 
Is man's commingling nature; hear him now 



THE DREAM. 



61 



Seme transient trial of his life depict, 

iiear him in holy rites a suppliant bow ; 
See him shrink back from sickness and from 

pain, 
And jn his sorrow to his God complain ; 
' Remit my trespass, spare my sin,' he cries, 
' All-merciful, Almighty, and All-wise ; 
Quench this affliction's bitter whelming tide, 
Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side :'— 
— And rises from that mockery of prayer 
To hale some brother-debtor to despair! 

" May this be spared thee ! Yet be sure, my 

child, 
Jlowe'er that dream thy fancy hath beguiled,) 
>Some sorrow lurks to cloud thy future fate ; 
Thy share of tears, — come early or come late, — 
Must still be shed ; and 'twere as vain a thing 
To ask of Nature one perpetual spring 
As to evade those sad autumnal hours. 
Or deem thy path df life should bloom, all 

flowers." 

She ceased: and that fair maiden heard the 
truth 
With the fond passionate despair of youth, 
Which, new '■.o suffering, gives its sorrow vent 
In outward signs and bursts of wild lament :— 



" If this be so, then, mother, let me die 
Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky ! 
Let me die young : before the holy trust 



62 



THE DREAM. 



In human kindness crumbles into dust; 
Before I suffer what I have not earn'd, 
Or see by treachery my truth return'd; 
Before the love I live for, fades away ; 
Before the hopes I cherish' d most, decay ; 
Before the withering touch of fearful change 
Makes some familiar face look cold and strange, 
Or some dear heart, close knitted to my own, 
By perishing, hath left me more alone ! 
Though death be bitter, I can brave its pain 
Better than all which threats if I remain : 
While my soul, freed from ev'ry chance of ill, 
Soars to that God whose high mysterious will 
Sent me, foredoom'd to grief, with wandering 

feet, 
To group my way through all this fair deceit !" 

Her parent heard the words with grieved 
amaze, 
And thus return'd, with calm reproving gaze : — 



" Blaspheme not fleaven with rash impatient 

speech, 
Nor deem, at thine own hour, its rest to reach, 
Unhappy child ! The full appointed time 
Is His to choose ; and when the sullen chime, 
And deep-toned striking of the funeral bell, 
Thy fate to earthly ears shall sadly tell. 
Oh ! may (he death thou talk'st of as a boon. 
Find thee prepared, — nor come even then too 

soon I 



•THE DREAM. 63 

** True, ere thou meet'st fhat long and dream- 
less sleep, 
Thy heart must ache — thy weary eyes must 

weep : 
It is our human lot ! The fariest child 
That e'er on loving mother brightly smiled, — 
Most watch'd, most tended — ere his eyelids 

close, 
Hath had his little share of infant woes, 
And dies familiar with the sense of grief. 
Though for all else his life hath been too brief! 
But shall we therefore, murmuring against God, 
Question the justice of his chastening rod, 
And look to earthly joys as though they were 
The prize immortal souls were given to share ? 
" Oh ! were such joys and this vain world alone 
The term of human hope — where, where 

would be 
The victims of some tyranny unknown, 

Who sank, still conscious that the mind was 

free? 
They that have Iain in dungeons years on years, 
No voice to cheer their darkness, — they whose 

pain 
Of horrid torture wrung forth blood with tears, 
Murder'd, perhaps, for some rapacious gain,— 
They who have stood, bound to the martyr's 

stake, 
While the sharo flames ate through the bhster- 

ing skin,— " 
They that have bled for some high cause's 

sake, — 



64 



THE DREAM. 



They that have perish'd for another's sin, 
And from the scaffold to that God appeal'd 
To whom the naked heart is all reveal'd, 
Against the shortening of life's narrow span 
By the blind rage and false decree of man ? 
And where obscurer sufferers — they who slept 

And left no name on history's random page, 
But in God's book of reckoning, sternly kept, 

Live on from year to year, from age to age ? 
The poor — the laboring poor! whose weary 
lives, 

Through many a freezing night and hungry 
day, 
Are a reproach to him who only strives 

In luxury to waste his hours away, — 
The patient poor ! whose insufficient means 

Make sickness dreadful, yet by whose low bed 
Oft in meek prayers some fellow sufferer leans, 

And trusts in Heaven while destitute of bread j 
The workhouse orphan, left without a friend; 

Or weak forsaken child of want and sin, 
Whose helpless life begins, as it must end. 

By men disputing who shall take it in ; 
Who clothe, who aid that spark to hnger here, 

Which for mysterious purpose God hatb 
given 
To struggle through a day of toil and fear. 

And meet him — with the proudest — up in 
heaven ! 
These were, and are not : — shall we therefore 

deem 
That they have vanish'd like a sleeper's dream I 



THE DREAM. 



6S 



Or that one half creation is to know 
Luxurious joy, and others only woe, 
And so go down into the common tomb, 
With none to question their unequal doom? 
Shall we give credit to a thought so fond? 
Ah ! no — the world beyond — the world beyond ! 
There, shall the desolate heart regain its own ! 
There, the oppress'd shall stand before God's 

throne ! 
There, when the tangled web is all explain'd, 
Wrong suffer'd, pain inflicted, grief disdain'd, 
Man's proud mistaken judgments and false scorn 
Shall melt like mists before uprising morn, 
And holy truth stand forth serenely bright, 
In the rich flood of God's eternal light! 

" Then shall the Lazarus of the earth have 
rest — 
The rich man judgment — and the grieving 

breast 
Deep peace for ever. Therefore look thou not 
So much to what on earth shall be thy lot, 
As to thy fate hereafter, — to that day 
When like a scroll this world shall pass away, 
And what thou here hast done, or here enjoy'd, 
Import but to thy soul : — all else destroy'd ! 

"And have thou faith in human nature still ; 
Though evil thoughts abound, and acts of ill ; 
Though innocence in sorrow shrouded be. 
And tyranny's strong step walk bold and free t 
For many a kindly generous deed is done 
5 



66 



THE DKEAM. 



Which loaves no record underneath the sun— 
Self-abnegating love and humble worth, 
Which yet shall consecrate our sinful earth ! 
He that deals blame, and yet forgets to praise, 
Who sets brief storms against long summer-days. 
Hath a sick judgment. Shall the usual joy 
Be all forgot, and nought our minds employ, 
Through the long course of ever-varing years, 
But temporary pain and casual tears ? 
And shall we all condemn, and all distrust, 
Because some men are false and some unjust ? 
Forbid it heaven! far better 'twere to be 
Dupe of the fond impossibility 
Of light and radiance which thy vision gave, 
Than thus to live Suspicion's loiiter slave. 
Give credit to thy mortal brother's heart 
For all the good than in thine own hath part. 
And, cheerfully as honest prudence may. 
Trust to his profTer'd hand's protecting stay : 
For God, who made this teeming earth so full, 
And made the proud dependent on the dull — 
The strong upon the weak — thereby would show 
One common bond should link us all below, 

" And visit not with a severer scorn 
Faults, whose denp root was with our nature 

born, 
From which — though others woo'd thee just aa 

vain — 
Thou, differently tempted, didst abstain : 
Nor dwell on points of creed — assuming right 
To judge how holy in his Maker's sight 



THE DREAM. 67 

Is he who at a different altar bends ; 

For hence have ris'n the bhtercst feuds of 

friends, 
The wildest wars of nations ; age on age 
Haih desecrated thus dark History's page ; 
And still (though not, perhaps, with fire and 

sword) 
Reckless we raise ' The banner of the Lord I' 
Mock Heaven's calm mercy by the plea we 

make, 
That all is done for gentle Jesus' sake, — 
Disturb the consciences of weaker men, — 
Employ the scholar's art, the bigot's- pen, — 
And rouse the wrathful and the spirit-proud 
To language bitter, vehement, and loud, 
Whose unconvincing fury wounds the ear, 
And seeking, with some sharp and haughty 

sneer. 
How best the opposing party may be stung,— r 
Pleads for religion with a devil's tongue ! 

" Oh! shall God tolerate the meanest prayer 

That humbly seeks his high supernal throne, 
And man — presumptuous Pharisee — declare 

His fellow's voice less welcome than his own ? 
Is it a theme for wild and warring words 

How best to satisfy the Maker's claim ? 
In rendering to the Lord what is the Lord's, 

Doth not the thought of violence bring shame ? 
Think ye he gave the branching forest tree 

To furnish fagots for the funeral pyre ? 
Or bid his sunrise light the world, to see 



68 THE DREAM. 

Pale tortured victims perish theu by fire ? 
No ! oft on earth, dragg'd forth m pain to die. 

The heretic may groan — the martyr bleed- 
But, set before his Sovereign Judge on high, 

'Tis man's offence condemns him, not hia 
creed. 
His first commandment was to vv'orship Him ; 

His next — to love the creature He hath made : 
How blind the eyes of those who read, how dim, 

Who see not here religious fury stay'd I 
From the proud Aa//- fulfilment of his law 

Sternly he turns away his awful face, 
Nor will contentment from their service draw, 

Who fail to grant a fellow-creature grace. 
Haply the days of martyrdom are past, 

But still we see, without a visible end, 
The bitter warfare of opinion last, 

Tho' God hath will'd that man should be 
man's friend. 
Therefore do thou, e'er yet thy youthful heart 

Be tinged with their revilings, safe retreat, 
And in those fierce discussions bear no part, — 

Odius in all — in woman most unmeet, — 
But in the still dark night, and rising day, 
Humbly collect thy thoughts, and humbly pray. 

" And be not thou cast down, because thy lot 
The glory of thy dream resembleth not. 
Not for herself was woman first create, 
Nor yet to be man's idol, but his mate. 
Still from his birth his cradled bed she tends, 
The first, the last, the faithfulest of friends; 



I 



THE DREAM. 69 

Still finds her place in sickness or in woe, 
Humble to comfort, strong to undergo ; 
Still ill the depth of weeping sorrow tries 
To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes ! 
And doubt not thou, — (althoagh at times de- 
ceived, 
Outraged, insulted, slander'd, crush'd, and 

grieved ; 
Too often made a victim or a toy, 
With years of sorrow for an hour of joy ; 
Too oft forgot midst Pleasure's circling wiles, 
Or only valued for her rosy smiles, — ) 
I'hat in the frank and generous heart of man, 
The place she holds accords with Heaven's high 

plan ; 
Still, if from wandering sin reclaim'd at all, 
He sees in her the angel of recall ; 
Still, in the sad and serious hours of life. 
Turns to the sister, mother, friend or wife ; 
Views with a heart of fond and trustful pride 
His faithful partner by his calm fireside ; 
And oft, when barr'd of Fortune's fickle grace, 
Blank ruin stares him darkly in the face. 
Leans his faint head upon her kindly breast, 
And owns her power to soothe him into rest,—* 
Owns what the gift of woman's love is worth 
To cheer his toils and trials upon earth ! 

" Sure it is much, this delegated power 
To be consoler of man's heaviest hour ! 
The guardian angel of a life of care, 
Ailow'd to stand 'twixt him and his despair! 



70 



THE DREAM, 



Such service may be made a holy task ; 
And more, 'twere vain to hope, and rash to ask^ 
Therefore, oh ! loved and lovely, be content, 
And take thy lot, with joy and sorrow blent. 
Judge none ; yet let thy share of conduct be, 
As knowing judgment shall be pass'd on thee 
Here and hereafter; so, still undismay'd, 
And guarded by thy sweet thoughts' tranquil 

shade, 
Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw 
Their light across thy path while life was new, 
Thou shalt move sober on, — expecting less, 
Therefore the more enjoying, happiness." 

There was a pause ; then, with a tremulous 

smile, 
The maiden turn'd and press'd her mother's 

hand : — 
" Shall I not bear what thou hast borne 

e'rewhile ? 
Shall I, rebellious. Heaven's high will with'- 

stand ? 
No ! cheerly on, my wandering path I'll take, 
Nor fear the destiny I did not make : 
Though earthly joy grow dim — though pleasure 

waneth— 
This thou hast taught thy child, that God re* 

maineth !" 

And from her mother's fond protecting sid© 
She went into the world a youthful bride. 



A DESTINY. 



There was a lady, who had early wed 

One whom she saw and loved in her Dnght 
youth, 
When life was yet untried — and when he said 
He, too, lov'd her, he spoke no more than 
truth ; 
He lov'd as well as baser nature can, — 
But a mean heart and soul were in that man. 

And they dwelt happily, if happy be 

Not with harsh words to breed unnatural 
strife : 

The cold world's Argus-watching failed to see 
The flaw that dimm'd the lustre of their life j 

Save that he seem'd tyrannical, tho' gay, 

Restless and selfish in his love of sway. 

The calm of conscious power was not in him ; 

But raiher struggling into broader light. 
The secret sense, they feel, however dim, 

Whose chance position gives a sort of right 
(As from the height of a prescriptive throne,) 
To govern natures nobler than their own. 

71 



72 A DESTINT. 

And as her youth waned slowly on, there fell 

A nameless shadow on that lady's heart ; 
And those she lov'd the best (and she lov'd well,) 

Had ol her confidence nor share, nor part ; 
Her thoughts lay folded from life's lessening 

light, 
Like the sweet flowers that close themselves at 
night. 

And men began to whisper evil things 
Against the honor of her wedded mate ; 

That which had pass'd for youth's wild wander- 
ings. 
Showed more suspicious in his settled state ; 

Until at length, — he stood, at some chance game, 

Discover'd, — branded with a Cheater's name. 

Out, and away he slunk, with felon air; 

Then, calling to him one who was his friend, 
Bid him to that unblemish'd wife repair 

And tell her what had chanced, and what the 
end ; 
How they must leave the country of their birth, 
And hide, — in some more distant spot of earth. 

It was a coward's thought : he could not bear 
Himself to be na "rator of his shame ; 

He that had trampled oft, now felt in fear 

Of her who still must keep his blighted 
name, — 

And shrank in fancy from that steadfast eye. 

The window to a soul so pure and high. 



A DESTINY. 



73 



She heard it. O'er her brow there pass'd a 
flush 
Of sunset red ; and then so white a hue. 
So deadly pale, it seem'd as if no blush 

Through that transparent cheek should shine 
anew ; 
As if the blood had frozen in that hour, 
And her check'd pulse for ever lost its power. 

And twice and once did she essay to speak ; 

And with a gesture almost of command, 
(Though in its motion it was deadly weak) 

She faintly lifted up her graceful hand : — 
But then her soul came back to her, strength 

woke. 
And with a low but even voice, she spoke : 

" Go ! say to him who dreamed of other 

chance, 
That HERE none sit in judgment on his sin ; 
That, to his door the world's scorn may advance, 

And cloud his path, but doth not enter in. 
Here dwell his Own : to share, to soothe dis- 
grace ;"— 
Which having said, she cover' d up her face. 

And, as he left her, sank in bitter prayer, — 
If prayer that may be term'd which comes to 
all. 
That sudden gushing of our vain despair. 

When none but G"'d can hear or heed our 
call ; 



74 



A DESTINy. 



And the wreck d soul feels, in its helpless hour, 
Where only d\\ells full mercy with full power. 

And he came home, a crush'd and humbled 
wretch ; 
Whom when she saw, she but this comfort 
found, 
In her kind arms that shrinking form to catch, 

Which tenderly about his neck she wound, 
As in the first proud days of love and trust, 
E're yet his reckless head was bow'd in dust; 

And they departed to a distant shore ; 

But wheresoe'er they dwelt, however lone, 
Shame, like a marble statue at his door, 

Flung her 'thwart shadow o'er his threshold 
stone ; 
Still darken'd all their daylight hours, and kept 
Cold watch above them even while they slept. 

And there was no more love between these two ! 

It died not in the shock of that dark hour — 
Such shocks destroy not love, whose purple hue 

Fades rather like some autumn-wither'd 
flower. 
Which day by day along the ruin'd walk 
We see — then miss it from the sapless stalk ; 

And, while it fadeth, oft with gentle hand 
Doth memory turn to life's dark journal-book* 

And, passing foul misdeeds, iiiienily stand 
On its first page of glorious hope to look ; 



A DESTINY. 75 

Weeping she reads, — and, seeing all so fair, 
Pleads hard for what we are, by what we were ! 

So through that hour love Hved ; and, though in 
part 

'Twas one of most unutte'-^ble pain, 
It had its sweetness too, anJ told her heart 

All she could do, and all she could sustain; 
The holy love of woman buoy'd her up, 
And God gave strength to drink the bitter cup. 

But when, as days crept on, she saw him still 
Less grateful than abash'd beneath her eye, 

And studying not how best to banish ill, 
But what he might conceal and what deny, 

Her soul revolted, and conceived a scorn, 

Sinful and harsh, although of virtue born. 

And oft she pray'd, with earnestness and pain, 
That heaven would bid that proud contempt 
depart, 

Anu wept to find the prayer and effort vain, 
Though it was breafh'd in agony of heart — 

Vain as the murmur of " Thy will be done," 

Breathed by the death-bed of an only son ! 

For when her children err'd (as children will) 
A sickening terror smote her heart with fears, 

And scarce she measured the degree of ill. 
Or made indulgence for their tender years ; 

They were his children ; and the chance of 
shame 

Kept watch for those \v ho bore that father's name 






76 



A DESTINY. 



And, thinking thus, reproof would take a A)no 
So strangely passionate, severe, and wild,— 

So deeply altered, — so unlike her own, — 
It stung and terrified her startled child, 

Whose innate sense of justice seemed to show 

Him over-chidden, being chidden so. * 

And then a gush of mother's love would swell 
Her grieving heart, — and she would fondly 
press 
The young offending head she loved so well 

Close to her own, with many a soft caress, 
Whose reconciling sweetness all in vain 
Stopp'd her boy's tears, while her's ran down 
like rain. 



The world (which still pronounces from the shov 
Of outward things) whisper'd and talk'd ol 
this ; 

Erring and obstinate, its crowds ne'er knew 
How much in judging they may judge amiss. 

Or how much agony and broken peace 

May lie beneath the seeming of caprice ! 

But he, her husband (for he was not dull,) 
Saw through these workings of a troubled 
mind. 

And, that her cup of sorrow might be full, 
He taunted her with words and looks unkind, 

Which v.'ith a patient bowing of the heart 

She took — like one resolved to do her part. 



A DESTINY. 77 

And years stole on (for years go by like days, 
Leaving but scatter'd hours to mark their 
course,) 
And brightness faded from that lady's gaze, 
And her cheek hoUow'd, and her step lost 
force, 
Till it was plain to even a careless eye 
'J'hat she was doom'd, before her time, to die. 

She died, as she had lived, her secret soul 
Shut from the sweet communion of true 

friends ; 
Her words, though not her thoughts, she could 

control. 
And still with calm respect his name she 

blends : 
They all stood round her whom she call'd her 

own. 
And saw her die — yet was that death-bed lone ! 

But in its darkest hour her thoughts were stirr'd 
And something falter'd from her dying tongue, 
Mournful and tender — half pronounced, half 
heard — 
For which he was too base — his boys loo 
young ; 
So, whatsoe'er the warnrng faintly given. 
It lay between her parting soul and fieaven. 

lie wept for her — ah ! who would not have wept 

To see that worn face in its pallid shroud, 
proving how much she suffer' d ere she slept 



A EESTINY. 



At peace forever ! Violent and loud 
Was the outbreaking of his sudden grief, 
And, like all feelings in that heart, 'twas biief. 

And someiliing strange pass'd o'er bis soul in- 
stead, 
When thinking upon her whom he had lost, 

Almost like a relief that she was dead : — 
She, whose high nature scorn'd his fault the 
most. 

And show'd it least, — had vanish'd from tha 
earth, 

And none could check his sin, or shame his 
mirth. 

So he return'd to many an evil way, 
Like one who strays when guiding light is 
gone; 

And mid the profligate, niiscall'd " the gay," 
Crept to a slippery place — his tale half known — 

111 look'd on, yet endured — the useful tool 

Of every bolder knave, or richer fool. 

And his two sons in careless beauty grew, 
Like wild flowers in his path: he niark'd them 
not, 
Kor reck'd he what they needed, learnt, or 
knew, 
Or what might be on earth their future lot ; 
But they died young — which is a thought of 

rest ! — 
L^nscoin'd, untempted, undefiled--so best. 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 



Elle etiiit de ce inonrle, ou les plus belies cliof^i 

Out le i)ire destin ; 
Et Rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les Roses, 

L'espace d'un matin I 



She came to England from the island clime 
Which lies beyond the far Atlantic wave ; 

She died in early youth — before her time — 
" Peace to her broken heart, and virgin grave!' 

She was the child of Passion, and of Shame, 
English her father, and of noble birth; 

Though too obscure for good or evil fame, 
Her unknown mother faded from the earth. 

And what that fair West Indian did betide. 
None knew but he, who least of all mighf 
tell,— 

But that she lived, and loved, and lonely died, 
And sent this orphan child with him lo dwell 

Oh ! that a fair, an innocent young face 
Should have a poison in its looks alone, 

79 



80 THE CREOLE GIRL. 

To raise up thoughts of sorrow and disgrace 
And shame most bitter, aUhoughnotits own i 

Cruel were they who flung that heavy shade 
Across the life whose days did but begin ; 
Cruel were they whtf crushd her heart, and 
made 
Her youth pay penance for his youth's wild 
sin ; 

Yet so it was ; — among her father's friends 
A cold compassion made contempt seem li^^ht. 

But, in " the world," no justice e'er defends 
The victims of their tortuous wrong and 
right : — 

And " moral England," striking down the 
weak, 
And smiling at the vices of the strong, 
On her, poor child! her parent's guilt would 
wreak. 
And that which was her grievance, made hei 
wrong. 

The world she understood not ; nor did they 
Who made that world, — her, either, under 
stand ; 

The very glory of her features' play 

Seem'd like the language of a foreign land; 

The shadowy feeUngs, rich and wild and warm, 
That glovv'd and mantled in her lovely face,— 



J 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 81 

The slight fall beauty of her youthful form. 
Its gentle majesty, its pliant grace, — 

The languid lustre of her speaking eye, 
The indolent smile of that bewitching mouth, 

(Which more than all betray'd her natal sky. 
And left us dreaming of the sunny South,) — 

The passionate variation of her blood, 

Which rose and sank, as rise and sink the 
waves, 
With every changeof her most changeful mood, 
SJwck'd sickly Fashion's pale and guarded 
slaves. 

And so in this fair world she stood alone. 
An alien 'mid the ever-moving crowd, 

A wandering stranger, nameless and unknown 
Her claim to human kindness disallow'd. 

But oft would Passion's bold and burning gaze/ 

And Curiosity's set frozen stare, 
Fix on her beauty in those early days, 

And coarsely thus her loveliness declare ! 

Which she would shrink from, as the gentle 
plant. 

Fern-leaved Mimosa folds itself away ; 
Buffering and sad ; — for easy 'twas to daunt 

One who on earth had no protecting stay. 

And often to her eye's transparent lid 
The unshed tears would rise with sudden start, 
6 



82 THE CREOLE ilRL. 

And sink again, as though by Reason chid, 
Back to their gentle home, her wounded heart; 

Even as some gushing fountain idly wells 
Up to the prison of its marble side. 

Whose power the mounting wave forever 
quells, — 
So rose her tears — so stemm'd by virgin pride. 

And so more lonely each succeeding day, 
As she her lot did better understand, 

She lived a life which had in it decay, 
A flower transplanted to too cold a land, — 

Which for a while gives out a hope of bloom, 
Then fades and pines, because it may not feel 

The freedom and the warmth which gave it 
room 
The beauty of its nature to reveal. 

For vainly would the heart accept its lot, 
And rouse its strength to bear avow'd con 
tempt, 

Scorn xbill be felt as scorn — deserved or not — 
And from its bitter spell none stand exempt 

There is a basilisk power in human eyes 
When they would look a fellow-creature down, 
Neath which the faint soul fascinated lies, 
Struck by the cold sneer and the with'ring 
frown. 

But one there was among the cruel crowd, 
Whose nature halfxehaWA against the chain, 



THE JREOLE 6IRL. 83 

Which fashion flung around him ; though too 

proud 
To own that slavery's weariness and pain. 

Too proud ; perhaps too weak ; for Custom stilJ 
Curbs with an iron bit the souls born free ; 

They start and chafe, yet bend them to the will 
Of this most nameless ruler, — so did he. 

And even unto Idm the worldly brand 
Which rested on her, half her charm effaced ; 

Vainly all pure and radiant did she stand, — 
E.Yen unto him she was a thing disgraced. 

Had she been early doom'd a cloister'd nun, 
To Heaven devoted by an holy vow — 

His union with that poor deserted one 

Had seem'd not more impossible than nov . 

Pie could have loved her — fervently and well ; 

But still the cold world with its false allure, 
Bound his free liking in an icy spell, 

And made its whole foundation insecure. 

But not like meaner souls, would he, to prove 

A vulgar admiration, her pursue ; 
For though his glance after her would rove, 

As something beautiful, and strange, and new 

They were withdrawn if but her eye met his, 
Or, for an instant if their light remain'd. 

They soften'd into gentlest tenderness, 
As asking pardon that his look had pain'd. 



^1 



84 



THE CREOLE BIRL. 



A.rid she was nothing unto him, — nor he 
Aught unto her ; but each of each did dream 

In the still hours of thought, when we are free 
To quit the real world for things which seem. 

When in his heart Love's folded wings would 
stir, 

And bid his youth choose out a fitting mate, 
Against his will his thoughts roam'd back to her, 

And all around seem'd blank and desolate. 

When, in his worldly haunts, a smother'd sigh 
Told he had won some lady of the land, 

The dreaming glances oi his earnest eye 
Beheld far off the Creole orphan stand ; 

And to the beauty by his side he froze, 
As though she were not fair, nor he so young, 

And turn'd on her such looks of cold repose 
As check' d the trembling accents of her 
tongue, 

And bid her heart's dim passion seek to hide 
Its gathering strength, although the task be 
pain, 
Lest she become that mock to woman's pride— 
A wretch that loves unwoo'd, and loves in 
vain. 

So in his heart she dwelt, — as one may dwell 
Upon the verge of a forbidden ground ; 

And oft he struggled hard to break the spell 
And banish her, but vain the effort found; 



THE f^REOLE GIRL. 



85 



For still along the winding way which led 
Into his inmost soul, unbidden came 

Her haunting form, — and he was visited 
By echoes soft of her unspoken name, 

Through the long night, when those we love 
seem, near. 
However cold, however far away, 
Borne on the wings of floating dreams, which 
cheer 
And give us strength to meet the struggling 
day. 

And when in twilight hours she roved apart. 
Feeding her love-sick soul with visions fair, 

The shadow of ^is eyes was on her heart. 
And the smooth masses oi' his shining hair 

Rose in the glory of the evening hght. 
And, where she wander'd glided, evermore, 

A star which beam'd upon her world's lone night 
Where nothing glad had ever shone before. 

But vague and girlish was that love, — no hope, 
Even of familiar greeting, ever cross'd 

Its innocent, but, oh I most boundless scope ; 
She loved him, — and sheknewherlove was lost 

She gazed on him, as one from out a bark, 
Bound onward to a cold and distant strand, 

Some lovely bay, some haven fair may mark, 
Stretching far inward to a sunnier land ; 



86 THE CREOLE GIRL. ^ 

Who, knowing he must still sail on, turns back 
To watch with dreaming and most mournful 
eyes 

The ruffling foam which follows in his track, 
Or the deep starlight of the shoreless skies. 

Oh 1 many a hopeless love Hke this may be,— 
For love will live that never looks to win • 

Gems rashly lost in Passion's stormy sea, 
Not to be lifted forth when once cast in ! 

PART IT 



So time roU'd on, till suddenly that child 

Of southron clime and feeUngs, droop'd and 
pined ; 
Her cheek wax'd paler, and her eye grew wild, 
And from her youthful form all strength de- 
clined. 

Twas then I knew her ; late and vainly call'd 
To " minister unto a mind diseased," — 

When on her heart's faint sickness all thing* 
pall'd, 
And the deep inward pain was never eased : 

Her step was always gentle, but at last 

It fell as lightly as a wither'd leaf 
In autumn hours ; and wberesoo'er she pass'd 

Smiles died away, she look'd so full of grief. 



L 



THE CKEOLE GIRL. 87 

And more than ever from that world, where 
still 
Her father hoped to place her, she would 
shrink ; 
Loving to be alone, her thirst to fill 
From the sweet fountain where the dream- 
ers drink. 

One eve, beneath the acacia's waving bough, 
Wrapt in these lonely thoughts she sate and 
read ; 

Her dark hair parted from her sunny brow, 
Her graceful arm beneath her languid head; 

And droopingly and sad she hung above 

The open page, whereon her eyes were bent. 

AV^ith looks of fond regret and pining love ; 
Nor heard my step, so deep was she intent. 

And when she me perceived, she did not start, 
But lifted up those soft dark eyes to mine, 

And smiled, (that rriournful smile which breaks 
the heart !) 
Then glanced again upon the printed Une. 

" What readest thou ?" I ask'd. Whh fervent 
gaze. 
As though she would have scann'd my inmost 
soul, 
i?he tnrn'd to me, and, as a child obeys 
The accustom'd question of revered control, 



88 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 



She pointed to the title of that book, 
(Which, bending down, I saw was "Coralie,") 

Then gave me one imploring piteous look, 
And tears, too long restrain'd, gush'd fast 
and free. 

It was a tale of one, whose fate had been 

Too like her own to make that weepflg 
strange ; 

Like her, transplanted from a sunnier scene ; 
Like her, all duU'd and blighted by the change. 

No further M'ord was breathed between us two ; — 
No confidence was made to keeper break; — 

But since that day, which pierced my soul quite 
thro', 
My hand the dying girl would faintly take, 

And murmur, as its grasp (ah ! piteous end I) 
Return'd the feeble pressure of her own, 

"Be with me to the last,— for thou, dear friend. 
Hast all my struggles, all my sorrow known 1" 

She died !— The pulse of that untrammell'd 

heart 

Fainted to stillness. Those most glorious 

eyes 

Closed on the world where she had dwelt apart 

And her cold bosom heaved no further sighs. 

She died ! — and no one mo urn' J, except hef 
sire, 



THE CREOLE SIRL. 89 

Who for a while look'd out with eyes more 
dim ; 
Lone was her place beside his household fire, 
Vanish' d the face that ever smiled on him. 

And no one said to him — " Why mournest 
thou?" 
Because she was the unknown child of shame; 
(Albeit her mother better kept the vow 

Of faithful love, than some who keep their 
fame.) 

Poor mother, and poor child I — unvalued lives ! 

Wan leaves that perish'd in obscurest shade I 
While round me still the proud world stirs and 
strives, 

Say, Shall I weep that ye are lowly laid ? 

Shall / mourn for ye ? No ! — and least for thee, 
Young dreamer, whose pure heart gave way 
before 

Thy bark was launch'd upon Love's stormy sea, 
Or treachery wreck'd it on the farther shore. 

Least, least of all for thee ! Thou art gone 
hence ? 
Thee never more shall scornful looks oppress, 
Thee the world wrings not with some vain pre- 
tence, 
Nor chills thy tears, nor mocks at thy distress. 

From man's injustice, from the cold award 
Of the unfeehng, thou hast pass'd away ; 



90 TWILIGHT. 

Thou 'rt at the gates of light where angels guard 
Thy path to realms of bright eternal day. 

There shall thy soul its chains of slavery burst, 
There, meekly standing before God's liigh 
throne, 

Thou'lt find ihe judgments of our earth reversed, 
And answer for no errors but thine own. 



TWILIGHT. 



It is the twilight hour, 

The daylight toil is done, 
And the last rays are departing 

Of the cold and wintry sun. 
Tt is the time when Friendship 

Holds converse fair and free. 
It is the time when children 

Dance round the mother's knee. 
But my soul is faint and heavy, 

With a yearning sad and deep, 
By the fireside lone and dreary 

I sit me down and weep ! 
Where are ye, merry voices, 

Whose clear and bird-like tone, 
Some oilier ear now blesses, 

Less anxious than my own? 
Where are ye, steps of lightness, 

Which fell like blossom-showers ? 



TWILIGHT. SI 

Where are ye, sounds of laughter, 

That cheer'd the pleasant hours ? 
Thro' the dim hght slow declining, 

Where nny wistful glances fall, 
I can see your pictures hanging 

Against the silent wall ; — 
They gleam athwart the darkness, 

With their sweet and changeless eyes* 
But mute are ye, my children! 

No voice to mine replies. 
Where are ye ? Are ye playing 

By the stranger's blazing hearth; 
Forgetting, in your gladness, 

Your old home's former mirth ? 
Are ye dancing ? Are ye singing ? 

Are ye full of childish glee ? 
Or do your light hearts sadden 

With the memory of me ? 
Round whom, oh 1 gentle darlings, 
. Do your young arms fondly twine. 
Does she press you to her bosom 

Who hath taken you from mine ? 
Oh ! boys, the twilight hour 

Such a heavy time hath grown, — 
It recalls with such deep anguish 

All I used to call my own, — 
That the harshest word that ever 

Was spoken to me there, 
Would be trivial — vvould be welcome^" 

In this depth of my despair ! 
Yet no ! Despair shall sink not, 
While Life and Love remain, — 



92 TWILIGHT. 

Tho' the weary struggle haunt me, 
And my prayer be made in vains 

Tho' at times my spirit fail me, 
x\nd the bitter tear-drops fall, 

Tho' my lot be hard and lonely, 
Yet I hope — I hope thro' all ! 



When the mournful Jewish mother 

Laid her infant down to rest, 
In doubt, and fear, and sorrow, 

On the water's changeful breast; 
She knew not what the future 

Should bring the sorely-tried: 
That the High Priest of her nation, 

Was the babe she ought to hide. 
No ! in terror wildly flying, 

She hurried on her paih : 
Her swoln heart full to bursting 

Of woman's helpless wrath; 
Of that wrath so blent with anguish. 

When we seek to shield from ill 
Those feeble little creatures 

Who seem more helpless still ! 
Ah ! no doubt in such an hour, 

Her thoughts were harsh and wild 
The fiercer burned her spirit, 

The more she loved her child ; 
No doubt, a frenzied anger 

Was mingled with her fear. 
When that prayer arose for justice 

Which God hath sworn to hear. 



TWILIGHT. 93. 

He heard it ! From His Heaven, 

In its blue and boundless scope, 
He saw that task of anguish, 

And that fragile ark of hope ; 
When she turn'd from that lost infant.^ 

Her weeping eyes of love, 
And the cold reeds bent beneath it— 

His angels watch' d above ! 
She was spared the bitter sorrow 

Of her young child's early death, 
Or the doubt where he was carried 

To draw his distant breath ; 
She was call'd his life to nourish 

From the well-springs of her heart, 
God's mercy re-uniting 

Those whom man had forced apart ! 

Nor was thy Vv'oe forgotten, 

Whose worn and weary feet 
Were driven from thy homestead. 

Through the red sand's parching heat; 
Poor Hagar I scorn'd and banish'd, 

That another's son might be 
Sole claimant on that father, 

Who felt no more for thee. 
Ah I when thy dark eye wander'd, 

Forlorn Egyptian slave ! 
Across that lurid desert, 

And saw no fountain wave, — 
When thy southern heart, despairing, 

In the passion of its grief, 
Foresaw no ray of comfort. 



94 



TWILIGHT. 

No shadow of relief ; 
But to cast the young child from thee, 

That thou might'st not see him die, 
How sank thy broken spirit — 

But the Lord of Hosts was nigh ! 
He (He, loo ofi forgotten, 

In sorrow as in joy) 
Had wiird they should not perish — 

The outcast and her boy : 
The cool breeze swept across them 

From the angel's waving wing, — 
The fresh tide gush'd in brightness 

From the lountain's hving spring,— 
And they stood — those two — forsakes 

By all earthly love or aid, 
Upheld by God's firm promise, 

Serene and undismay'd ! 
And thou, Nain's grieving widow ! 

Whose task of life seem'd done, 
When the pale corse lay before thee 

Of thy dear and only son ; 
Though Death, that fearful shadow, 

Had veil'd his fair young eyes. 
There was mercy for thy weeping, 

There was pity for thy sighs ! 
The gentle voice of Jesus, 

(Who the touch of sorrow knew) 
The grave's cold claim arrested 

E'er it hid him from thy view ; 
And those loving orbs re-open'd 
And knew thy mournful face, — 



TWILII?' HT. 95 

And the stiff limbs warm'd and bent them 

With all life's moving grace, — 
And his senses dawn'd and waken'd 

From the dark and irozen spell, 
Which death had cast around him 

Whom thou didst love so well; 
Till, like one return' d from exile 

To his former home of rest, 
Who speaks not while his mother 

Falls sobbing on his breast ; 
But with strange bewilder'd glances 

Looks round on objects near, 
To recognise and welcome 

All that memory held dear, — 
I'hy young son stood before thee 

All living and restored, 
And they who saw the wonder 

Knelt down to praise the Lord ! 

The twilight hour is over ! 

In busier homes than mine 
I can see the shadows crossing 

Athwart the taper's shine ; 
I hear the roll of chariots 

And the tread of homeward feet, 
And the lamps' long rows of splendour 

Gleam through the misty street. 
No more I mark the objects 

In my cold and cheerless room ; 
The fire's unheeded embers 

Have sunk — and all is gloom ; 
But I know where hang your pictures 



96 TWILIGHT. 

« 

Against the silent wall, 
And my eyes turn sadly towards them, 

Tho' I hope — I hope thro' all. 
By the summons to that mother, 

Whose fondness fate beguiled, 
When the tyrant's gentle daughter 

Saved her river-floating child ; — 
By the sudden joy which bounded 

In the banish'd Hagar's heart, 
When she saw the gushing fountain 

From the sandy desert start ; — 
By the living smile wiiich greeted 

The lonely one of Nain, 
When her long last watch was over 

And her hope seem'd wild and vaiOj 
By all the tender mercy 

God hath shown to human grief, 
When fate or man's perverseness 

Denied and barr'd relief, — 
By the helpless woe which taught me 

To look to him alone, 
From the vain appeals for justice 

And wild efforts of my own, — 
By thy hght — thou unseen future, 

And thy tears— thou bitter past^ 
1 will hope — tho' all forsake me, 

In His mercy to the last ! 



THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE. 



When first, beloved, in vanish'd hours 

The bhnd man soughi ihy love to gain, 
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers 

New freshen'd by the summer rain : 
They said thy movements, swift yet soft, 

Were such as make the winged dove 
Seem, as it gently soars aloft. 

The image of repose and love. 

They told me, too, an eager crowd 

Of wooers praised thy beauty rare 
But that thy heart was all too proud 

A common love to meet or share. 
Ah ! thine was neither pride nor scorn, 

But in thy coy and virgin breast 
Dwelt preference, not of passion born, 

The love that hath a holier rest ! 

Days came and went ; — thy step I heard 
Pause frequent, as it pass'd me by : — 

Days came and went ; — thy heart was stirr'd 
And answer'd to my stifled sighl 

And ihou didst make a humble choice, 

7 97 



98 THE BLIND MAN's BRIDE. 

Content to be the blmd man's bride, 
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice, 
And own'd no joy on earth beside. 

And well by that sweet voice I knew 

(Without the happiness of sight) 
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few, 

Thy smile, most innocently bright: 
I knew how full of love's own grace 

The beauty of thy form must be ; 
And fancy idolized the face 

Whose loveliness I might not see ! 

Oh ! happy were those days, beloved ! 

I almost ceased for light to pine 
When thro' the summer vales we roved, 

Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine. 
Thy soft " Good night" still sweetly cheer'd 

The unbroken darkness of my doom ; 
And thy " Good morrow, love," endear'd 

Each sunrise that return' d in gloom I 

At length, as years roU'd swiftly on, 

They spoke to me of Time's decay — 
Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone. 

And ebon ringlets turn'd to gray. 
Ah ! then I bless'd the sightless eyes 

Which could not feel the deepening shade, 
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies 

Thy withering beauty faintly fade. 

? saw no paleness on thy cheek, 
No lines upon thy forehead smooth,— 



THE BLIXD man's BRIDE. 99 

But Still the BLIND MAN heard thee speak 
In accents made to bless and soothe. 

Still he could feel thy guiding hand 
As thro' the woodlands wild we ranged, — 

Still in the summer light could stand, 

And know thy heart and voice unchanged. 

And still, beloved, till life grows cold. 

We'll wander 'neath a genial sky, 
And only know that we are old 

By counting happy years gone by: 
For thou to me art still as fair 

As when those happy years began,— 
When first thou cam'st to sooth and share 

The sorrows of a sightless man ! 

Old Time, who changes all below. 

To wean men gently for the grave, 
Hath brought us no increase of woe, 

And leaves us all he ever gave : 
For I am still a helpless thing, 

Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by thee— » 
And thou art she whoso beauty's spring 

The blind man vainly yearn' d to sea ! 



THE WIDOW TO HER SON'S 
BETROTHED. 



Ah, cease to plead with that sweet cheerfid 
voice, 

Nor bid me struggle with a weight of woe, 
Lest from the very tone that says " rejoice" 

A double bitterness of grief should grow; 
Those words from thee convey no gladdening 
thought, 

No sound of comfort lingers in their tone. 
But by their means a haunting shade is brought 

Of love and happiness forever gone ! 

My son ! — alas, hast thou forgotten Mm, 

That thou art full of hopeful plans again ? 
His heart is cold — his joyous eyes are dim,— 

For him the future is a word in vain ! 
He never more the welcom-e hours may share, 

Nor bid Love's sunshine cheer our lonely 
home, — 
How hast thou conquer' d all the long despair 

Born of that sentence — He is in the tomb 1 
100 



THE WIDOW TO HER SON's BETROTHED. lOl 

How can thy hand with cheerful fondness presa 
The hands of friends who still on earth may 
stay — 
Remembering his most passionate caress 

When the lon& paktijv& summon'd him 
away ? 
How can'st thou keep from bitter weeping, 
while 
Strange voices tell thee thou art brightly fair — 
Remembering how he loved thy playful smile, 
Kiss'd thy smooth cheek, and praised thy 
burnish' d hair? 

How can'st thou laugh ? How can'st thou 
warble songs ? 
How can'st thou lightly tread the meadow- 
fields, 
Praising the freshness which to spring belongs, 
And the sweet incense which the hedge-flower 
yields ? 
Does not the many-blossom'd spring recall 
Our pleasant walks through cowslip-spangled 
meads, — 
The violet-scented lanes — the warm south-wall, 
Where early flow' rets rear'd their welcome 
heads ? 

Does not remembrance darken on thy brow 
When the wild rose a richer fragrance flmgs — • 

When the caressing breezes lift the bough, 
And the sweet thrush more passionately 
sings ;-' 



102 THE WIDOW TO HER SON's BETROTHED. 

Dost thou not, then, lament for him whose form 
Was ever near thee, full of earnest grace ? 

Does not the sudden darkness of the storm 
Seem luridly to fall on Nature's face ? 

It does to ME ! The murmuring summer breeze, 

Which thou dost turn thy glowing cheek to 
meet, 
For me sweeps desolately through the trees, 

And moans a dying requiem at my feet ! 
The glistening river which in beauty glides. 

Sparkling and blue with morn's triumphant 
light, 
All lonely flows, or in its bosom hides 

A broken image lost to human sight ! 

But THOU ! — Ah ! turn thee not in grief away; 

I do not wish thy soul as sadly wrung — 
I know the freedom of thy spirit's play, 

I know thy bounding heart is fresh and young : 
I know corroding Time will slowly break 

The links which bound most fondly and most 
fast, 
And Hope will be Youth's comforter, and make 

The long bright Future overweigh the Past. 

Only, when full of tears I raise mine eyes 
And meet tlmie ever full of smiling light, 

I feel as though thy vanished sympathies 

Were buried in nis grave, where all is night ; 

And when beside our lonely hearth I sit, 
And thy light laugh comes echoing to my ear. 



THE DYING HOUR. 103 

I wonder how the waste of mirth and wif 
Hath still the power thy widow' d heart to 
cheer ! 

Bear with me yet I Mine is a harsh complaint ! 

And thy youth: s innocent jight-heartedness 
Should rather soothe me when my spirit's faint 

Than seem to mock my age's lone distress. 
But oh ! the tide of grief is swelhng high, 

And if so soon forgetfulness must be — 
If, for the DTAD, thou hast no further sigh, 

Weep for his Mother ! — Weep, young Bride, 
for ME ! 



THE DYING HOUR. 



" Te teneam moiiens, deficiente manu.'' 



Oh ! watch mc ; watch me still 
Thro' the long night's dreary hours, 

Uphold by thy firm will 

Worn Nature's sinking powers ! 

While yet thy face is there 
(The loose locks round it flying,) 

So young, and fresh, and fair, 
I feel not I am dying ! 



104 THE DYING HOUR. 

Stoop down, and kiss my brow ! 

The shadows round me closing 
Warn me that dark and low 

I soon shall be reposing. 

But while those pitying eyes 
Are bending thus above me, 

In vain the death-dews rise, — 
Thou dost regret and love me ! 

Then watch me thro' the night. 
Thro' my broken, fitful slumbers; 

By the pale lamp's sickly light 
My dying moments number I 

Thy fond and patient smile 

Shall soothe my painful waking ; 

Thy voice shall cheer me while 
The slow gray dawn is breaking ! 

The battle-slain, whose thirst 
No kindly hand assuages, 

Whose low faint iarewell burst 
Unheard, while combat rages, — 

The exiled, near whose bed 

Some vision'd form seems weeping. 

Whose steps shall never tread 

The land where he lies sleeping,— 

The drown'd, whose parting breath 
Is caught by wild winds only, — 

Theirs is the bitter death. 
Beloved, for they die lonely ! 



THE DYING HOUR. 105 

But thus, tho' rack'd, to lie, 
Thou near, tho' full of sadness, 

Leaves still, e'en while I die, 
A lingering gleam of gladness I 

I feel not half my pain 

When to mine thy fond lip presses,— 
I warm to life again 

Beneath thy soft caresses ! 

Once more, oh ! yet once more 
Fling, fling thy white arms round me, 

As oft in days of yore 

Their gentle clasp hath bound me ; 

And hold me to that breast 

Which heaves so full with sorrow — 
Who knows where I may rest 

In the dark and blank to-morrow ? 

Ah ! weep not — it shall be 

An after-thought to cheer thee. 

That while mine eyes could see. 

And while mine ears could hear thee — ' 

Thy voice and smile were still 
The spells on which T doated. 

And thou, through good and ill, 
To me and mine devoted ! 

And calmly by my tomb, 

When the low bright day declineth; 
And athwart the cypress gloom 

The mellow sunse'. shineth, — 



106 THE BYIXG HOUR. 

Thou It sit and think of Him, 

Who, of Heaven's immortal splendor. 

Had a dream on earth, though dim, 
In thy love so pure and tender, — 

Who scarcel}' feels thy touch, — 

Whom thy voice can rouse no longer,— 

But whose love on earth was such, 
That only death was stronger. 

Yes, sit, but not in tears ! 

Thine eyes in faith uplifting, 
From thy lot of changeful years. 

To the Heaven where nought is shifting 

F' jm this world, where all who love 

Are doomed alike to sever, 
To the glorious realms above. 

Where they dwell in peace for ever ! 

And then such hope shall beam 
From the grave where I lie sleepinqf, 

This bitter hour shall seem 

Too vague and far for weeping — 

And grief — ah ! hold me now ! 

My fluttering pulse is failing, — 
The death-dews chill my brow,— 

The morning light is paling ! 

I seek thy gaze in vain, — 

Earth reels and fades before me , 

I die — but feel no pain, — 
Thy sweet face shining o'er rae. 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE. 



T CAWNOT love thee, tho' my soul 
Be one which all good thoughts control J 
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright, 
And the gleams of golden light 
Fall upon thy silken hair, 
And thy forehead, broad and fair; 
Something of a cold disgust, 
(Wonderful, and most unjust,) 
Something of a sullen fear 
Weighs my heart when thou art near; 
And my soul, which cannot twine 
Thought or sympathy with thine, 
With a coward instinct tries 
To hide from thy enamor'd eyes. 
Wishing for a sudden blindness 
To escape those looks of kindness ; 
Sad she folds her shivering wings 
From the love thy spirit brings, 
Like a chained thing, caress'd 
Ey the hand it knows the best, 
By the hand which, day by day, 
Visits its imprison'd stay. 
Bringing gifts of fruit and b'ossoro 

107 



108 I CANNOT LOVE THEE. 

From the green earth's plenteous bosom; 
All but that for which it pines 
In those narrow close confines, 
With a sad and ceaseless sigh — 
Wild and winged Liberty I 

Can It be, no instinct dwells 
In th' immortal sou!, which tells 
That thy love, oh ! human brother. 
Is unwelcome to another ? 
Can the changeful wavering eye, 
Raised to thine in forced reply, — 
Can the cold constrained smile. 
Shrinking from thee all the while, 
Satisfy thy heart, or prove 
Such a likeness of true love ? 

Seems to me, that I should guesa 
By what a world of bitterness. 
By what a gulf of hopeless care. 
Our two hearts divided were : 
Seems to me that I should know 
All the dread that lurk'd below, 
By the want of answer found 
In the voice's trembling sound 
By the unresponsive gaze ; 
By the smile which vainly plays, 
In whose cold imperfect birth 
Glows no fondness, lives no mirth | 
By the sigh, whose different tone 
Hath no echo of thine own ; 



1 CANNOT LOVE THEE. 109 

By the hand's cold clasp, which still 
Held as not of its free will, 
Shrinks, as it for freedom yeern'd',— 
That my love was unreturn'd. 

When thy tongue (ah ! woe is me !) 
Whispers love-vows tenderly, 
Mine is shaping, all unheard, 
Fragments of some withering word, 
Which, by its complete farewell, 
Shall divide us like a spell! 
And my heart beats loud and fast, 
Wishing that confession past; 
And the tide of anguish rises. 
Till its strength my soul surprises, 
And the reckless words, unspoken, 
Nearly have the silence broken, 
With a gush like some wild river, — 
" Oh ! depart, depart for ever !" 

But my faltering courage fails, 
And my drooping spirit quails ; 
So sweet-earnest looks thy smile 
Full of tenderness the while. 
And with such strange pow'r are gifted 
The eyes to which my own are lifted ; 
So my faint heart dies away, 
And my lip can nothing say, 
And I long to be alone, — 
For I weep when thou art gone ! 

Yes, I weep, but then my sr<jl, 
free to ponder o'er the whole, 



110 I CANxVur LOVE THEE. 

Free from fears which check' d its thought. 

And the pahi thy presence brought, 

Whispers me the useless He, — 

" For thy love he will not die, 

Such pity is but vanity." 

And I bend my weary head 

O'er the tablets open spread, 

Whose fair pages me invite 

All I dared not say to write ; 

And my fingers take the pen, 

And my heart feels braced again 

With a resolute intent ; — 

But, ere yet that page be sent, 

Once I view the written words 

Which must break thy true heart's chords; 

And a vision, piercing bright. 

Rises on my coward sight, 

Of thy fond hand, gladly taking 

What must set thy bosom aching ; 

While too soon the brittle seal 

Bids the page the worst reveal. 

Blending in thy eager gaze — 

Scorn, and anguish, and amaze. 

Powerless, then, my hanu reposes 
On the tablet which it closes. 
With a cold and shivering sense 
Born of Truth's omnipotence : 
And my weeping blots the leaves. 
And my sinking spirit grieves. 
Humbled in that bitter hour 
By very consciousness of power \ 



1 CANNOT LOVE THEE. HI 

What am I, that I should be 
Such a source of woe to thee ? 
What am I, that I should dare 
Thus to play with thy despair, 
And persuade myself that thou 
Wilt not bend beneath the blow ? 

Rather should my conscience move 
Me to think of this vain love, 
Which my life of peace beguiles, 
As a tax on foolish smiles, 
Which — like light not meant for one 
Who, wandering in the dark alone, 
Hath yet been tempted by its ray 
To turn aside and lose his way — 
Binds me, by their careless sin, 
To take the misled wanderer in. 

And T praise thee, as I go, 
Wandering, weary, full of woe, 
To my own unwilling heart ; 
Cheating it to take thy part 
By rehearsing each rare merit 
Which thy nature doth inherit. 
To myself their list I give. 
Most prosaic, positive : — 
How thy heart is good and true. 
And thy face most fair to view ; 
How the powers of thy mind 
Flatterers in the wisest find, 
And the talents God hath given 
Seem as held in trust lor Heaven; 



112 I CANNOT LOVE THEE. 

Laboring on for noble ends, — » i 

Steady to thy boyhood's friends,— || 

Slow to give, or take, offence, — 

Full of earnest eloquence, — 

Hopeful, eager, gay of cheer, — 

Frank in all thy deahngs here, — 

Ready to redress the wrong 

Of the weak against the strong, — ■ 

Keeping up an honest pride 

With those the -world hath deified, 

But gently bending heart and brow 

To the helpless and the low ; — 

How, in brief, there dwells in thee 

All that's generous and free, 

All that may most aptly move 

My Spirit to an answering love. 

But in vain the tale is told ; 

Still my heart lies dead and cold, 

Still it wanders and rebels 

From the thought that thus compels, 

And refuses to rejoice 

Save in unconstrained choice. 

Thereiore, when thme eyes shall read 
This, my book, oh take thou heed ! 
In the dim Unes written here, 
All shall be explained and clear; 
All my lips could never speak 
When my heart grew coward -weak. 
All my hand could never write, 



.__J 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE. 113 

The' I planned it day and night, — 
4il shall be at length confest, 
And thou' It forgive, — and let me rest ! 
None but thou and I shall know 
Whose the doom, and whose the woe ; 
None but thou and I shall share 
In the secret printed there ; 
It shall be a secret still, 
Tho' all look on it at will ; 
And the eye shall read in vain 
What the heart cannot explain. 
Each one, baffled in his turn, 
Shall no more its aim discern, 
Than a wanderer who might look 
On some wizard's magic book, 
Of the darkly-worded spell 
Where deep-hidden meanings dwell. 
Memory, fancy, ihey shall task 
This sad liddle to unmask, — 
Or, with bold conjectural fame, 
V'it the pages with a name; — 
tJut nothing shall they understand, 
\nd vainly shall the stranger's hand 
SJssay to fling the leaves apart, 
Vhich bears Mr "nessage to thy heart I 
8 



THE POET'S CHOICE. 



'TwAS in youth, that hour of dreaming j 
Round me, visions fair were beaming, 
Golden fancies, brightly gleaming, 

Such as start to birth 
When the wandering restless mind, 
Drunk with beauty, thinks to find 
Creatures of a fairy kind 

Realized on Earth ! 

Then, for me, in every dell 
Hamadryads seeni'd to dwell 
(They who die, as Poet's tell. 

Each with her own tree ;) 
And sweet mermaids, low reclining, 
Dim hght through their grottos shining, 
Green weeds round their soft hmbs twining; 

Peopled the deep Sea. 

Then, when moon and stars were fair. 
Nymph-like visions fiU'd the air, 
With blue wings and golden hair 

Bending from the__skies; 
And each cave by echo haunted 

114 



THE poet's choice. 115 

In its depth of shadow granted, 
Brightly, the Egeria wanted. 

To my eager ejes. 

But those glories pass'd away ; 
Earth seem'd left to dull decay, 
And my heart in sadness lay. 

Desolate, uncheer'd; 
Like one wrapt in painful sleeping. 
Pining, thirsting, waking, weeping, 
Watch thro' Life's dark midnight keeping,, 

Till THY form appear'd! 

Then my soul, whose erring measure 
Knew not where to find true pleasure, 
Woke and seized the golden treasure 

Of thy human love; 
And, looking on thy radiant brow, 
My lips in gladness breathed the vow 
Which angels, not more fair than thou. 

Have register'd above. 

And now I take my quiet rest. 
With my head upon thy breast, 
I will make no further quest 

In Fancy's realms of light ; 
Fay, nor nymph, noi" winged spirit, 
Shall my store of love inherit ; 
More thy mortal charm doth merit 

Than dream, however bright. 

And my soul, like some sweet bird 
Whose song at summer eve is heard, ' 



116 THE GEE.MAN STUDENT's LOVE-SONff. 

When the breeze, so lightly stirr'd, 

Leaves the branch unbent,— 
Sits and all triumphant sings, 
Folding up her brooding wings, 
And gazing out on earthly things 

With a calm content. 



THE GERMAN STUDENT'S LOVE- 
SONG. 



" Ich liebe dich !" 



By the rush of the Rhine's broad stream, 

Down whose rapid tide 
We sailed as in some sweet dream 

Sitting side by side ; 
By the depth of its clear blue wave 

And the vine-clad hiils, 
Which gazed on its heart and gave 

Their tribute rills ; 

By the mountains, in purple shade, 

And those valleys green 
Where our bower of rest was made, 

By the world unseen ; 
By the notes of the wild free bird, 

Singing over-head, 



THE GERMAN STUDE.NT's LOVE SONG. IH 

When naught else in ihe sunsliine stirr'd 
Round our flower}' bed ; 

By these, and by Love's power divine, 
I have no thought but what is thine ! 

By the glance of thy radiant eyes, 

Where a glory shone 
That was half of the summer skies 

And half their own ; 
By the light and yet fervent hold 

Of thy gentle hand, — 
(As the woodbines the flowers unfold 

With tneir tender band ;) 

By thy voice when it breathes in song, 

And the echo given 
By lips that to Earth belong, 

Float up to Heaven ; 
By the gleams on thy silken hair 

At the sunset hour, 
And the breadth of thy forehead fair 

With its thoughtful power ; 

By these, and by Love's soul divine, 
I have no hope but what is thine ! 

By the beauty and stillness round 

When the lake's lone shore 
Scarce echoed the pleasant sound 

Of the distant oar ; 
By the moonlight which softly fell 



118 THE GEKMAN STUDENx's LOVE-S0N(J. 

On all objects near, 
And thy whisper seemed like a spell 
In thy Lover's ear; 

By the dreams of the restless past, 

And the hope that came 
Like sunshine in shadow cast 

With thy gentle naine ; 
By the beat of thy good true heart 

Where pure thoughts have birth ; 
By thy tears when Fate bade us part. 

And thy smiles of mirth ; 

By these, and by Love's power divine, 
I have no hope but what is thine ! 

By the gloom of those holy fanes 

Where the light stream'd through 
Dim orange and purple panes 

On the aisles below ; 
By the ruin'd and roofless wall 

Of that castle high, 
With its turrets so gray and tall 

In the clear blue sky ; 

By beauty, because its light 

Should thy portion be, 
And whatever is fair and bright 

Seems a part of thee; 
And by darkness and blank deca? 

Because they tell 



THE HUNTING-HORN OF CTIARLEMAG-NE. 119 

What the world would be, thou away, 
Whom I love so well ; 

By these, and by Love's power divine, 
My heart, my soul, my life, are thine ' 



THE HUNTING HORN OF CHARLE- 
MAGNE. 



Among other lel.cs preserved in the Cathedral at 
Aix-la-Chapelle is the ivory hunting-horn of Charle- 
magne. It is massive and heavy, and the attempt of 
the guide to sound it (for the amusement of tourists 
and strangers) is singularly unsuccessful, the note 
•■»roduced being the most faint and lugubrious which 
.t is nossible to conceive. 



Sound not the horn ! — the guarded relic keep : 
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep: 
His life it gladden'd — to his life belong'd, — 
l*ause — ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd. 
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand ; 
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand. 
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore. 
When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore, — 
Not such the sound ! Far over hill and dell 
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell ; 
Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall 
From castled crag to roofless ruin'd hall, 



120 THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 

Down the ravine's precipitous descent, 
Thro' the wild forest's rustUng boughs it went. 
Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond, 
And faintly answer' d from the hills beyond : 

Pause ! — the free winds that joyous blast have 
borne : — 
Dead is the hunter ! — silent be the horn ! 

Sound not the horn ! Bethink thee of the day 
When to the chase an Emperor led the way ; 
In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime, 
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, 
Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast. 
Glad, active, vigorous, — who is now at rest : — 
How he gazed around him with his eagle eye, 
Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky, 
Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting 

steed, 
(Whose fine nerves' quiver with his headlong 

speed ^ 
At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn, 
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn ! 

Ah I let no touch the ivory tube profane 
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne J 
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown, 
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down ! 

Or, following to his palace, dream we now 
Not of the hunter's strength or forest bough, 



THE HUNTING-HOKN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 121 

But woman's love ! Her offering this, per 

chance, — 
This, granted to each stranger's casual glance, 
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes. 
Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs 
We see her not ; — no mournful angel stands 
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands 
But fancy brings a vision to our view — 
A woman's form, the trusted and the true : 
The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare, 
Patient to watch thro' many a day of care. 
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, 
And with her whole heart's welcome in her 

smile ; 
Even such I see ! Her maidens, too, are there, 
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air ; 
But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear, 
And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear, 
She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still, 
For one faint blast that dies along the hill. 
Upj up, she springs ; her young head backward 

thrown ; 
" He comes ! my hunter comes ! — Mine own — 

mine own !" 

She loves, and she is loved — her gift is worn — 
'Tis fancy, all ! — And yet — lay down the horn ! 

Love — life — what are ye ? — since to love and 
live 
No surer record to our times can give ! 
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name 



122 THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMA&NE. 

Could fire with glory, or with love inflame ; 
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride, 
And dim tradition dreameth by his side. 
Desolate stands those painted palace-halls, 
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls, 
Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome 

guest. 
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest ; — 
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound, 
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound 
Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air, 
Or faintly echoes many a humble prayer; 
Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and 

high. 
With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky, — 
Where glimmers down, with various-painted 

ray, 
A prison'd portion of God's glorious day, — 
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn, 
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn ! 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 



" Coming through the churchyard here, I espied a 
young man who had flung himself down on the grave 
to weep, and who ever and anon repeated, with most 
passionate lamentations, " O, friend ! faithful friend !" 
Respecting his grief, I passed on, marvelling as I went 
what manner of man he had been who slept under that 
stone." — Letters of a Tourist. 



0, FRIEND ! whose heart the grave doth shroud 

From human joy or woe, 
Know'st thou who wanders by thy tomb, 

With footsteps sad and slow ? 
Know'st thou whose brow is dark with grief? 

Whose eyes are dim with tears ? 
Whose restless soul is sinking 

With its agony of fears ? 
Whose hope hath failed, whose star hath sunk, 

Whose firmest trust deceived, 
Since, leaning on thy faithful breast, 

He loved and he believed ? 
'Tis I ! — Return and comfort me. 

For old remembrance sake. — 

]23 



124 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND, 

From the long silence of the tomb— ■ 

The cheerless tomb — awake ! 
I listen — all is still as death — 

No welcome step is nigh, — 
T call thee, but thou answerest not ^ 

The grave hath no reply ! 
But mournl'ully the strange bright sun 

Shines on thy funeral stone. 
And sadly, in the cypress bough, 

The wild wind makes her moan. 

When we were young, and cheerfully 

The promised future glow'd, 
I little thought to stand alone 

By this thy last abode ; 
I little thought, in early days, 

generous and kind ! 

That THOU, the first, shouldst quit the earth. 
And leave me, wreck'd, behind. 

Thine was the pure unjealous love ! 

1 know they told us then 
That Genius' gifts divided me 

From dull and common men ; 
That thou wert slow to science ; 

That the chart and letter'd page 
Had in them no deep spell whereby 

Thy spirit to engage ; 
But rather thou wouldst sail thy boat, 

Or sound thy bugle horn. 
Or track the sportsman's triumph through 

The fields of waving corn, 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 125 

Than o'er the pond'rous histories 

Of other ages bend, 
Or dwell upon the sweetest page 

That poet ever penn'd : 
And it was u-ue ! Our minds were cast 

As pleased the will of Heaven, 
And different powers unto me, 

And unto thee, were given ! 
No trick of talent deck'd thy speech 

And glorified thy youth, — 
Its simple spell of eloquence 

Lay in its earnest truth ; 
Nor was the gladsome kindliness 

Which brighten'd on ihy brow, 
The beauty which in fiction wins 

Love s fond romantic vow ; 
But gazing on thine honest face, 

Intelligently bold. 
Oft have I doubted of the gifts 

Which men so precious hold, — 
Wit, learning, wealth, seem'd overprized. 

Since thou, dear friend, couldst be 
So closely knit unto my heart 

By thy simplicity. 

The worldly-wise may sneer at this, 

And scorn thee, if they will, — 
Thy judgment was not sharpen'd by 

The cunning of their skill ; 
No deep and calculating thoughts 

Lay buried in thy breast, 



i26 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

To chill and vex thy honest heart. 

And startle it from rest; 
No dream of cold philosophy, 

To make thee doubt and sigh, 
And fawn and flatter half thy kind, 

And pass the others by! 
And there thou liest forgotten — 

Thou faithful friend, and true^ — 
Thy resting-place beneath the cold 

Damp shadow of the yew; 
And quietly within the tomb's 

Dark precints wert thou laid. 
As a faded leaf unnoticed drops 

Within the forest shade. 

flow should the world have tears for thee f 

The world hath nothing lost — 
No parent's high ambitious hope 

Thy early death hath crost ; 
No sculptured falsehood gives to fame 

Thy monumental stone, — 
From the glory of our Senate-house, 

No orator is gone : 
Science hath lost no well-known name,—* 

No soldier's heart shall bound, 
Linking old England's victories 

With that inglorious sound ; 
No jealous and tomb-tramphng foe 

Shall find it worth his while, 
With a false history of thy acts. 

Thy country to beguile ; 



THE FAITHFUL FFwIEND- li" 

No mercenary hand in haste 

Prepare the letter'd tome, 
And publicly reveal the fond 

Small weaknesses of Home ; 
Nor some vainglorious friend (who yet 

Hath lov'd thee to the last) 
Permit all men to buy and sell 

His records of the past ; 
Nor give thy living letters up, 

Nor print thy dying words ; 
Nor sweep with sacrilegious hand 

Affection's holy chords ; 
Nor with a frozen after- thought 

Dissect thy generous heart, 
And count each pulse that bid thy blood 

Gush with a quicker start. 

No I Blest Obscurity was thine ' 

In sacred darkness dwells 
The mem'ry of thy last fond looks 

And faltering farewells ; 
And none shall drag thy actions forth, 

For Slander or for Praise, 
To that broad light which never glowed 

Round thy unnoticed days. 
At times a recollected jest, 

Or snatch of merry song, 
Which was so thine, that still to »bee 

Its ringing notes belong. 
To boon companions back again 

Thy image may recall, — 
But lightly sits thy memory, 



128 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

Oh Faithful Friend, on all ! 
The old house still hath echoe«» glad| 

Tho' silent be thy voice, 
Thy empty place at bed and bo? 

Forbids not to rejoice I 
Still with its white and gleaming sail; 

By stranger's launch'd to float 
Across the blue lake in the sun, 

Glides on thy little boat ; 
Thy steed another rider backs,— 

Thy dogs new masters find, 
But I, — / mourn thy absence still 

Thou generous and kind : 
Since T have lost thy pleasant smile, 

And voice of ringing mirth, 
A silence and a darkness seems 

Come down upon the earth ; 
A weight sits heavy on my heart, 

And clogs my weary feet. 
For, wander where I will, thy glanc© 

T never more shall meet, 
I cannot knit my soul again ; 

My thoughts are wide astray 
When others by my side would wile 

An hour or two away ; 
My door flings wide to welcome in 

Some less familiar face, 
And my heart struggles hard to fill 

Thy ever vacant place ; 
But all in vain ! Dim thoughts of the» 

Across my bosom steal. 
And still, the louder mirth around. 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 129 

The lonelier I feel ; 
yea, even that should make me proud. 

The laurel wreath of Fame 
But brings me back our early days, 

And the echo of thy name ; 
But brings me back thy cheerful smile^ 

When yet a careless boy, 
Mine was the toil, but thou didst share 

The glory and the joy ; 
And bright across the awarded prize 

Thy kind eye answer'd mine. 
As full of triumph and delight 

As though that prize were thine. 
Yes ! all is vain ! I want not Wit, 

I want not Learning's power, 
I want THY hand, I want thy smile 

To pass the cheerless hour ; 
I want thy earnest, honest voice, 

Whose comfort never fail'd ; 
t want thy kindly glance, whose light 

No coldness ever veil'd : 
t feel at every turn of life 

Thy loss hath left me lone, 
Vnd I mourn the friend of boyhood's year* 

The friend for ever gone I 
9 



THE WINTER'S WALK. 



* Written after walking with Mr. Rogers 



Malk'd — as the hours should be, Fate bids q8 

spend 
With one illustrious, or a cherish'd friend — 
Rich in the value of that double claim, 
Since Fame allots the friend a Poet's name, — 
My " Winter's Walk" asserts its right to live 
Amongst the brightest thoughts ray life can give. 
And leaves a track of light on Memory's way 
Which oft shall gild the future Summer's day. 

Gleanrd the red sun athwart the misty haze 
Which veil'd the cold earth from its loving gaze, 
Feeble and sad as Hope in Sorrow's hour, — 
Bui lor THY soul it still had warmth and power j 
Not to its cheerless beauty wert thou blind, 
To the keen eye of thy poetic mind 
Beauty still lives, tho' nature's flow'rets die, 
And wintry sunsets fade along the sky ! 
And naught escaped thee as we stroU'd along, 
Nor changeful ray, nor bird's faint chirping song» 
Bless'd with a fancy easily inspired, 

130 



THE WINTES's WALK. 131 

All was beheld, and nothing unadmu'eJ ; 
Not one of all God's blessings giv'n in vain, 
From the dim city to the cloaded plain. 

And many an anecdote of other times, 

Good earnest deeds, — quaint wit, — and polished 

rhymes, — 
Many a sweet story of remembered years 
Which thrilled the listening heart with unshed 

tears, — 
Unweariedly thy willing tongue rehearsed, 
And made the hour seem brief as we conversed. 

Ah 1 who can e'er forget, who once hath heard. 
The gentle charm that dwells in every word 
Of thy calm converse ? In its- kind allied 
To some fair river's bright abundant tide, 
Whose silver gushing current onward goes, 
Fluent and varying ; yet with such repose 
As smiles even through the flashings of thy wi , 
In every eddy that doth ruffle it. 
Who can forget, who at thy social board 
Hath sat, — and seen the pictures richly stored, 
In all their tints of glory and of gloom, 
Brightening the precints of thy quiet room ; 
With busts and statues full of that deep grace 
Which modern hands have lost the skill to trace, 
(Fragments of beauty — perfect as thy song 
On that sweet land to which they did belong,) 
Th' exact and classic taste by thee displayed ; 
Not with a rich man's idle fond parade. 
Not with the pomp of some vain connoisseur 



132 THE winder's walk. 

Proud cf his bargains, of his judgment sure, 
But with the feelings kind and sad, of one 
Who thro' far countries wandering hath gone, 
And brought away dear keepsakes, to remind 
His heart and home of all he left behind. 

But wherefore these, in feeble rhyme recall ? 
Thy taste, thy wit, thy verse, are known to all; 
Such things are for the World, and therefore 

doth 
The World speak of them ; loud, and nothing 

loth 
To fancy that the talent stamped by Heaven 
Is naught unless iheir echoed praise be given, 
A worthless ore not yet allowed to shine, 
A diamond darkly buried in its mine. 
These are thy daylight qualities, whereon 
Beams the full lustre of their garish sun, 
And the keen point of many a famed reply 
Is what they would not " willingly let die." 
But by a holier light tliy angel reads 
The unseen records of more gentle deeds, — 
And by a holier light thy angel sees 
The tear oft shed for humble miseries, — 
The alms dropp'd gently in the beggar's hand, 
(Who in his daily poverty doth stand 
Watching for kindness on thy pale calm brow, 
Ignorant to whom he breathes his grateful vow.) 
Th' indulgent hour of kindness stol'n away 
From the free leisure of thy well-spent day, 
For some poor strugghng Son of Genius, bent 
Under the weight of heart-sick discontent ; 



THE winter's walk. 133 

Whose prayer thou hearest, mindful o the 
schemes 

Of thine own youth; — the hopes, the fever- 
dreams 

Of Fame and Glory which seemed hovering 
then, 

(Nor only seemed) upon thy magic pen ; 

And measuring not how much beneath thine 
own 

Is the sick mind thus pining to be known, 

But only what a wealth of hope lies hushed 

As in a grave, — when men like these are 
chrushed I 

And by that hght's soft radiance /review 
Thy unpretending kindness, calm and true, 
Mot to me only, — but in bitterest hours 
To one whom Heaven endowed with varied 

flowers ; 
To one who died, e'er yet my childish heart 
Knew what Fate meant, or Slander's fabled dart! 
Then was the laurel green upon his brow. 
And they could flatter then, who judge him 

now, 
Who, when the fickle breath of fortune changed, 
With equal falsehood held their love estranged ; 
Nay, like mean wolves, from whelp-hood vainly 

nurst. 
Tore at the easy hand that fed them first. 
Not so didst THOU the ties of friendship break — 
Not so didst THOU the saddened man iorsake ; 
And when at length t e laid his dying head 



134 THE REPRIEVE. 

On the hard rest of his neglected bed, 
He found, — (Tko' few or none around him came 
Whom he had toiled for in his hour of Fame ;— 
Though by his Prince, unroyally forgot, 
And left tc struggle with his altered lot; — ) 
By sorrow weakened, — by disease unnerved,— 
Faithful at least the friend he had not served : 
For the same voice essayed that hour to cheer, 
Which now sounds welcome to his grandchild's 

ear ; 
And the same hand, to aid that Life's decline, 
Whose gentle clasp so late was linked in mine ! 



THE REPRIEVE. 



Suggested by a beautiful little Picture painted by J. 
R. Herbert, Esq., representing, in the foreground, a 
Woman pleading with a Warrior, and, in the back- 
ground, preparations for an Execution. 



A MOMENT since, he stood unmoved — alone, 

Courage and thought on his resolved brow; 
P>ut hope is quivering in the broken tone. 

Whose bitter anguish seems to shake him 
now : 
Ifer light foot woke no echo as it came, 

The rustling robe her sudden swiftness told ; 
She pleads for one who dies a death of shame ; 

She pleads — for love and agony are bold. 



THE REPRIEVE. 135 

" Oh ! hear me, thou, who in the sunshine's 
glare 
So calmly waitest till the warning bell 
Shall of the closing hour of his despair 

In gloomy notes of muffled triumph tell. 
Let him not die I Avenging Heaven is just ; 
Thine, a like fate ia after years may be : 
Thy forfeit head may gasping bite the dust. 

While those thou lovest, plead in vain for thee ! 
Thou smilest sternly : thou could'st well brave 

death ; 
Hast braved it often on the tented field. 

So fought my hero on th' ensanguined heath, 

With desperate strength, that knew not how 

to yield : 

But oh ! the death whose punctual hour is set, 

And waited for mid lingering thoughts of pain ; 

Where no excitement bids the heart forget, 
A.nd skill and courage are alike in vain ; 
Who shallfind strength iox that ? — Oh 1 man, 
to whom 
Fate, chance, or what thou wilt, hath given this 
hour — 
Upon whose will depends his dreaded doom- 
Doth it not awe thee, thinking of thy power? 

In the wide battle's hot and furious rage, 
Where the mix'd banners flutter to and fro. 

Where all alike the desperate combat wage, 
One of the thousand swords may pierce him 
through : 
But, now, his life is in thy single hand : 



136 THE REPRIEVE. 

To thee the strange and startling power h 
given — 
And thou shah answer for this day's command 
When ye stand face to face in God's own 
Heaven. 
Bear with nve ! pardon me this sudden start ! 
My words are bitter, for my heart is sore ! 
^ And oh ! dark soldier of the iron heart, 
Fain would I learn the speech should touch thee 
more ! 
He haih a mother— age hath dimm'd her 
sight — 
But when his quick returning step comes nigh, 
She smiles, as though she saw a sudden light, 
And turns to bless him with a stiffled sigh. 
When to her arms a lonely wretch I go, 
And she doth ask for him, the true and brave. 
While on her cheek faint smiles of welcome 
glow, 
How shall I answer ' he is in the grave !' 

He hath a httle son— a mirthful boy, 
Whose coral lips with ready smiles are curl'd ; 
Wilt thou quench all the spring-time of Iws 

joy. 

And leave him orphan in a friendless world ? 

Hast thou no children ? — Do no visions come, 
When the low night-wind through the popla. 
grieves — 
Echoes of farewell voices — sounds of home— 
For which thy busy day no leisure leaves ? 
Some one doth love thee — some one thou dos^ 
love— 



THE TvEPRIEVE. 137 

(For such the blessed lot of all on earth,; 

Some one to whom thy thoughts oft fondly 
rove, 
The sharer of thy sorrows and thy mirth ; 

Who with dim weeping eyes, and thoughts 
that burn, 
Sees thy proud form lead forth th' embattled host ; 

To whom 'a victory' speaks oi thy return — 
And ' a defeat' means only thou art lost ! 

If such there be, (and on thy helm- worn brow 
Sternness, not cruelty, doth seem to reign,) 

Think it is she, who kneels before thee now, 
Her heart which bursts with agony of pain. 

" Hark ! — 'Tis the warning stroke — his hour 
is come — 
I hear the bell slow clanging on the air — 

I hear the beating of the muffled drum — 
Thou hast a moment yet to save and spare ! 

Oh I when' returning to thy native land, 
Greeted with grateful tears and loud acclaim ; 

While gazing on thy homeward march they 
stand, 
And smiling children shout thy welcome name : 

How wilt thou bear the joyous village chimes, 
Whose ringing peals remind thee of to-day — 

Will not my image haunt thee at those times ? 
And my hoarse desperate voice seem yet to 
pray ? 

When the long term of bloody toil is past, 
And the hush'd trumpet calls no more to arms- 
Will not his death thy tranquil brow o'ercast. 



138 THE FORSAKEN. 

And rob that peaceful hour of half its charms ? 
When thy child's mother bends thy lip to 
press, 
And her true hand lies clasp' d within thine 
own — 
Will her low voice have perfect power to 
bless, 
Remembering me, the widow'd and the lone ? 
When they embrace thee — when they wel 

come thee 

By all my hopes of Heaven, thy brow relents ! 

Oh ! sign tlae paper — let his life go free — 
Give it me quick !" — 

"What ho ! Raise her — the woman faints !" 



THE FORSAKEN. 



Suggested by an Italian picture, of a djing girl, to wbom 
the lute is being played. 



It is the music of her native land, — 

The airs she used to love in happier days ; 

The lute is struck by some young gentle hand, 
To soothe her spirit with remember' d lays. 

But her sad heart is wandering from the notes, 
Her ear is fill'd with an imagined strain; 

Vamly the soften'd music round her floats, 
The echo it awakes is all of pain 1 



THE FORSAKEN. 



139 



The echo it awakes, is of a voice 
Which never more her weary heait shall 
cheer ; 
Fain would she banish it, but hath no choice, 
Its vanish' d sound still haunts her shrinking 
ear, — 

Still haunts her with its tones of joy and love, 

Its memories of bitterness and wrong, 
Bidding her thoughts thro' various changes 
rove, — 
Welcomes, farewells, and snatches of wild 
song. 

Why bring her music ? She had half forgot 
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd she was ; 

Why, by these strains, recal jier former lot, 
The depth of all her suffering, and its cause ? 

Know ye not what a spell there is in sound ? 

Know ye not that th'^ melody of words 
Is nothing to the power that wanders round, 

Giving vague language to harmonious chords ? 

Oh 1 keep ye silence ! He hath sung to her 
And from that hour — (faint twihght, sweet 
and dim, 
When the low breeze scarce made the branches 
stir) — 
Music hath been a memory of him ! 

Chords which the wandering fingers scarcely 
touch 
When they would seek for some forgotten 
song,— 



140 THE FORSAKEN. 

Stray notes which have no certain meaning, such 
As careless hands unthinkingly prolong, — 

Come unto her, fraught with a vivid dream 
Of love, in all its wild and passionate 
strength, — 

Of sunsets, gUttering on the purple stream, — 
Of shadows, deepening into twilight length,— 

Of gentle sounds, when the warm world lay 
hush'd 

Beneath the soft breath of the evening air, — 
Of hopes and fears, and expectations crush'd, 

By one long certainty of blank despair ! 

Bear to the sick man's couch the fiery cup, 
Pledged by wild feasters in their riotous hours, 

And bid his parch'd lips drink the poison up, 
As tho' its foam held cool refreshing powers,- 

Lift some poor wounded wretch, whose writhing 
pain 
Finds soothing only in an utter rest, 
Forth in some rude-made litter, to regain 
Strength for his limbs and vigor for his 
breast ; — 

But soothe ye not that proud forsaken heart 
With strains whose sweetness maddens as 
they fall ; 
Untroubled let her f(|verish soul depart — 
Not long shall memory's power its might 
enthral • 



THE VISIONAKY POrlTRAIT. 141 

Not long, — tlio' balmy be the summer s breath; 

In the deep stillness of its golden light, 
A shadowy spirit sits, whose name is death, 

And turns, what was all beauty, into blight ; 

And she, before whose sad and dreaming eye 
Visions of by-gone days are sweeping on, 

[n her unfaded youth shall drooping die, 
Shut from the glow of that Iiulian sun : 

Then let the organ's solemn notes prolong 
Their glory round the silence of her grave, 

Then let '.he choral voices swell in song 
And echo through the chancel and the nate \ 

For then her heart shall ache not at the sound, 
Then the faint fever of her life shall cease ; 

lilencc, unbroken, calm, shall reign around, 
And the long restless shall be laid at peace. 



THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT 



As by his lonely hearth he sate, 
The shadow of a welcome dream 

Pass'd o'er his heart, — disconsolate 
His home did seem ; 

Comfort in vain was spread around, • 

For something still was wanting found. 



142 THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. 

Therefore he thought of one who might 

Forever in his presence stay ; 
Whose dream shouhJ be of him by night, 

Whose smile should be for him by day ; 
And the sweet vision, vague and far, 
Rose on his fancy hke a star. 

" Let her be young, yet not a child, 
Whose light and inexperienced mirth 

Is all too winged and too wild 
For sober earth, — 

Too rainbow-like such mirth appears, 

And fades away in misty tears. 

" Let youth's fresh rose still gently blooE 
Upon her smooth and downy cheek, 

Yet let a shadow, not of gloom, 
But soft and meek. 

Tell that some sorrow she hath known, 

Tho' not a sorrow of her own. 

" And let her eyes be of the gray, 
The soft gray of the brooding dove. 

Full of the sweet and tender ray 
Of modest love; 

For fonder shows that dreamy hue 

Than lustrous black or heavenly blu«. 

"Let her be full of quiet grace, 
No sparkling wit with sudden glow 

Bright'ning her purely chisell'd face 
And placid brow ; 



THE PICTUKE OF SAPPHO. 14 

Not radiant to the stranger'' s eye, — 
A creature easily pass'd by ; 

" But who, once seen, with untold powei 
For ever haunts the yearning heart, 

Raised from the crowd that self-same hour 
To dwell apart, 

All sainted and enshrined to be 

The idol of our memory ! 

" And oh ! let Mary be her name- 
It hath a sweet and gentle sound 

At which no glories dear to fame 
Come crowding round, 

But which the dreaming heart beguiles 

With holy thoughts and household smiles. 

*' With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind, 
And love, the same in joy and tears, 

And gushing intercourse of mind 
Thro' faithf'.il years ; 

Oh I dream of something half divine. 

Be real — be mortal — and be mine !" 



THK PICTURE OF SAPPHO. 



Thou ! whose impassion'd face 
The Painter loves to trace. 

Theme of the Sculptor's art and Poet's story- 
How many a wand'ring thought 
Thy loveliness hath brought 

Warming the heart with its imagined glory ! 



144 THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO. 

Yet, was it History's truth, 

That tale of wasted youth, 
Of endless grief, and Love forsaken pining f 

What wert thou, thou whose woe 

The old traditions show 
With Fame's cold light around thee vainly 
shining ? 

Didst thou inded sit there 

In languid lone despair— 
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying — 

Thy soft and earnest gaze 

Watching the lingering rays 
In the far west, where summer-day was dying- 
While with low rustling wings 

Among the quivering strings 
The murmuring breeze faint melody was making 

As though it wooed thy hand 

To strike with new command. 
Or raourn'd with thee because thy heart was 
breaking ? 

Didst thou, as day by day 

RoU'd heavily away, 
And left thee anxious, nerveless, and dejected, 

Wandering thro' bowers beloved — 

Roving where he had roved — 
Yearn for his presence, as for one expected 1 

Didst thou, with fond wild eyes 
Fix'd on the starry skies, 



THE PICTURE OF SAPPHv. . 145 

Wait feverishly for each new day to waken — 

Trusting some glorious morn 

Might witness his return, 
Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken ? 

And when conviction came, 

Chii.ing that heart of flame, 
Didst thou, O saddest of earth's grieving 
daughters I 

From the Leucadian steep 

Dash, with a desperate leap, 
And hide thyself within the whelming waters f 

Yea, in their hollow breast 

Thy heart at length found rest ! 
The ever- moving waves above thee closing— 

The winds, whose ruffling sigh 

Swept the blue waters by, 
Disturb 'd thee not ! — thou wert in peace re- 
posing ! 

Such is ihe tale they tell ! 

Vain was thy beauty's spell — 
Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire 

Though many a happy band 

Rung with less skilful hand 
The borrowed love-notes of thy echoing lyre. 

Fame, to thy breaking heart 

No comfort c(fuld impart. 
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing , 

One grief and one alone 

Could bow thy bright head down — 
Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing! 
10 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY- 



Spirit ! who over this our mortal Earth, 

Where naught hath birth 

Which imperfection doth not some way dim, 

Since Earth offended Him — 

Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wing8 

Dost shower down hght o'er mean and commoi; 

things ; 
And, wandering to and fro, 
Through the condemn'd and sinful world doat 

go. 
Haunting that wilderness, the human heart, 

With gleams of glory that too soon depart, 

Gilding both weed and flower ; — 

What is thy birth divine ? and whence thj 

mighty power? 

The Sculptor owns thee ! On hit> high pale brow 

Bewild'ring images are pressing now ; 

Groups whose immortal grace 

His chisel ne'er shall trace, 

Though in his mind the fresh creation glows ; 

High forms of godlike strength, 

Or limbs whose languid length 

146 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 147 

The marble fixes in a sweet repose ! 
A-t thy command, 
[lis true and patient hand 
Mould's the dull clay to Beauty's richest line, 
Or with more tedious skill, 
Obedient to thy will, 
By touches imperceptable and fine, 
Works slowly day by day 
The rough-hewn block away. 
Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile 
Wakes into statue-life and pays the assiduous 
toil ! 

Thee, the young Painter knows, — whose fervent 
eyes, 

O'er the blank waste of canvass fondly bending, 

See fast within its magic circle rise 

Some pictured scene, with colors softly blend- 
ing, — 

Green bowers and leafy glades, 

The old Arcadian shades, 

Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, 

And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one 

Appear to bless his sight 

In Fancy's glowing light, 

Peopling that spot of green Earth's flowery 
breast 

With every attitude of joy and rest. 

Lo ! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth 
(Like an uprising star in the cold north) 
Some face which soon shall glow with beauty'a 
fire : 



148 THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 

Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around, 
Dim and uncertain as an echoed sound, 
But oh ! how bright to him, whose hand thou 
dost inspire ! 

Thee, also, doth the dreaming Poet hail, 
Fond comforter of many a weary day — 
When through the clouds his Fancy's ear can 

sail 
To worlds of radiance far, how far, away ! 
At thy clear touch (as at the burst of light 
Which Morning shoots along the purple hills, 
Chasing the shadows of the vanish' d night. 
And silvering all the daYkly gushing rills, 
Giving each waking blossom, gemm'd with dew, 
Its bright and proper hue ;) — 
He suddenly beholds the chequered face 
Of this old world in its young Eden grace ! 
Disease, and want, and sin. and pain, are not— 
Nor homely and familiar things : — man's lot 
Is like aspirations — bright and high ; 
And even in the haunting thought that man 

must die. 
His dream so changes from its fearful strife, 
Death seems but fainting into purer hfe ! 

Nor only these thy presence woo. 
The less inspired own thee too ! 
Thou hast thy tranquil source 
In the deep well-springs of the human heart, 
And gushest with sweet force 
When most imprison' d ; causing tears to start 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 149 

In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye, 

As, with a sigh, 

At the bright close of some rare holiday, 

He sees the branches wave, the waters play— 

And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime 

Warn him a busier world reclaims his time 1 

Thee, Childhood's heart confesses, — whea 
he sees 
The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze, 
When the red coral wins his eager gaze. 
Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays. 
Thee, through his varied hours of rapid joy, 
The eager Boy, — 

Who wild across the grassy meadow springs, 
And slill wuh sparkling eyes 
Pursues the uncertain prize, 
Lured by the velvet glory of its wings ! 

And so from youth to age — yea, till the end— 
An unforsaking, unforgetting friend, 
Thou hoverest round us ! And when all is o'er, 
And Earth's most loved illusions please no more» 
Thou stealest gently to the couch of Death ; 
There, while the lagging breath 
Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh 
Consoling visions from thy native sky. 
Making it sweet to die I 

The sick man's ears are faint — his eyes are dim—* 
But his heart listens to the Heavenward hymn. 
And his soul sees — in lieu of that sad band, 
Who come with mournful tread 



150 THE SENSE OF BEAUT?.' 

To kneel about his bed, — 

God's white-robed angels, who around him stand. 

And waive his Spirit to " the Better Land I" 

So, living, — dying, --still our hearts pursue 
That loveliness which never met our view ; 
Still to the last the ruling thought will reign, 
Nor deem one feeling given — was giv'n in vain . 
For it may be, our banish'd souls recall 
In this, their earthly thrall, 
(With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world 
Whence angels once were hurl'd ; 
Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense, 
Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence, 
P'oreshows the immortal radiance round us shed^ 
When the Imperfect shall be perfected ! 
Like the chain' d eagle in his fetter' d might, 
Straining upon the Heavens his wistful sight, 
Who toward the upward glory fondly springs 
With all the vain strength of his shivering 

wings, — 
So chain'd to earth, and baffled — yet so fond 
Of the pure sky which lies so far beyond. 
We make the attempt to soar in many a thought 
Of Beauty born, and into Beauty wrought; 
Dimly we struggle onwards : — who shall say 
Which glimmering light leads nearest to the day ? 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 



When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest trea- 
sure, 

Vly heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that il yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

Nor thought that awy love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years^ 
And natural piety ihat lean'd to Heaven ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given — • 

Obedient— easy to be reconciled — 

A.nd meekly cheerful — such wert thou, my child ! 

Not willing to be loft ; still by my side 
Haunting my walks, while summer-day waa 
dying : — 
Nor leaving in thy turn ; but pleased to glide 

Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying, 
Or l)y the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
•Vatch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek 

151 



152 THE mother's heart. 

O boj' ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, — prone to fade,— 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower,— 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to 
bind, 

And clung, hke woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then thou, my merry love ; — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glanc- 
ing. . . 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth. 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladden' d earth ! 

Thine was the shout ! the song I the burst of joy ! 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy hp 
resoundetli : 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 
And the glad heart from which all grief 
reboundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, 
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye ! 

And thine was many an art to whi and bless. 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warm- 
ing ; 
The coaxing smile ; — the frequent soft caress ; — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 
A.gain my heart a new affection found. 
But thought that love with thee had reached ita 
bound. 



THE MOTHF.Pv's HEART. 153 

At length thou earnest : thou, the last and least ; 
Nick-named " The Emperor" by thy laugh- 
ing brothers, 
Because a haughty spirit swell'dthy breast, 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
others ; 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile : 

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders — curling lip — and dauntless 
brow — 
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's 
dreaming : 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both ! Yet each succeedins claim^ 
I, that all other love had been forswearing, 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 

But in the Mother's Heart, found room for ail . 



MAY-DAY, 1837. 



May-day is come! — While yet the unwilling 
Spring 
Checks with capricious frown the opening year, 
Onward, where bleak, winds have been whisper- 
ing, 
The punctual Hours their ancient playmate 
bear; 
But those who long have look'd for thee, stand 

.by' 

Like men who welcome back a friend bereaved, 
And cannot smile, because his sadden'd'eye 
Doth mutely tell them how his soul is grieved. 
Even thus we greet thine alter'd face to-day, 
Thou friend in mourning garb ! — chill, mel- 
ancholy May I 

To thee the first and readiest smiles of Earth, 
Lovely with life renew'd, were always 
given, — 
To thee belong' d the sunshine and the mirth 
Which bathed all Nature with a glow from 
Heaven, — 
To thee the joy of Childhood's earnest heart, 

154 



MAT-DAY, 1837. 155 

His shouting song, and light elastic tread, 
His brows high arch'd, and laughing lips apart, 
Bright as the wreath that bound his rosy 
head : — 
Thou wert of innocence the holiday, 
Thou garlanded and glad 1 — thou ever- 
blooming May ! 

Yet will I not reproach thee for thy change : 

Closed be the flower, and leafless be the tree ! 
Smile not as thou wert wont ; but sad, and 
strange, 
And joyless, let thy tardy coming be ! 
So shall I miss those infant voices less, 

Calling each other through the garden bowers, 
Meeting and parting in wild happiness, 
Leading a light dance thro' the sunny hours ; 
Those little mirthful hearts, who, far away. 
Breathe, amid cloud-capp'd hills, a yet more 
wintry May ! 

Ah, boys ! your play-ground is a desert spot, 

Revisited alone, and bathed with tears; 
And where ye pass your May-day, knoweth not 
The mother who hath watch'd your dawning 
years. 
Mine is no more the joy to see ye come, 

And deem each step hath some peculiar grace I 
Yours is no more the mother's welcome home, 
Smiling at each beloved, familiar faco ! 
And I am thankful that this dreary May 
Recalls not, save by name, that brighter, 
happier day I 



156 TO THE LADY H. O. 

I should have feU more mock'd, if there had been 
More peace and sunshme round me, — had thu 
_ grove, 
Clad in transparent leaves of tender green, 
Been full of murm'ring sounds of Nature'.! 
love ; 
I should have wept more bitterly beneath 

The frail laburnum trees, so faint and fair, — • 
I should have sicken'd at the lilac's breath, 
Thrown by the warm sun on the silent air ; 
But now, with stern regret I wend my way— 
I know thee not, — thou cold and unfamUiar 
May! 



TO THE LADY H. 0. 



Come o'er the green hills to the sunny sea! 

The boundless sea that washeth many lands. 
Where shells unknown to England, fair and 
free, 

Lie brightly* scatter'd on the gleaming sands. 
There, 'midst the hush of slumbering ocean's 
roar, 

We'll sit and watch the silver-tissued waves 
Creep languidly along the basking shore, 

And kiss thy gentle feet, like Eastern slaves. 

And we will take some volume of our choice, 

P^'ull of a quiet poetry of thought. 
And thou shalt read me, with thy plaintive voice. 



TO THE LADY H. 0. IS'? 

Lines which some gifted mind hath sweetly 
wrought ; 
And I will Usten, gazing on thy face, 

(Pale as some cameo on the Itahan shell!) 
Or looking out across the far blue space, 

Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell. 

Come forth ! The sun hath flung on Thetis' 
breast 
The glittering tresses of his golden hair ; 
All things are heavy with a noonday rest. 

And floating sea-birds leave the stirless air. 
Against the sky, in outlines clear and rude, 
The cleft rocks stand, while sunbeams slant 
between ; 
And lulling winds are murmuring thro' the wood, 
Which skirts the bright bay with its fringe of 
green. 

Come forth ! All motion is so gentle now, 

It seems thy step alone should walk the 
earth, — 
Thy voice alone, the '* ever soft and low," 

Wake the far-haunting echoes into birth. 
Too wild would be Love's passionate store ^tl 
hope. 

Unmeet the influence of his changetul power, — 
Ours be companionship, whose gentle scope 

Hath charm enough for such a tranquil hour. 

And slowly, idly wandering, we will roam, 
Where the hig'i cliffs shall give us an ample 
shade ; 



158 TO THE LADY H. 0. 

And watch the glassy waves, whose wnithful 
foam 
Hath power to make the seaman's heart afraid. 
Seek thou no veil to shroud thy soft brown 
hair, — 
Wrap thou no mantel round thy graceful form ; 
The cloudless sky smiles forth as still and fair, 
As tho' earth ne'er could know another storm. 

Come ! Let not listless sadness make delay, — 
Beneath Heaven's light that sadness will 
depart ; 
And as we wander on our shoreward way, 
A strange, sweet peace shall enter in thine 
heart. 
We will not weep, nor talk of vanish'd years, 
When, link by link, Hope's glittering chain 
was riven : 
Those who are dead, shall claim from love no 
tears, — 
Those who have injured us, shall be forgiven. 

Few have my summers been, and fewer thine ;— 

Youth blighted is the weary lot of both : 
To both, all lonely shows our life's decline, 

Both with old friends and ties have waxed 
wroth. 
But yet we will not weep ! The breathless calm 

Which lulls the golden earth, and wide blue 
sea, 
Shall pour into our souls mysterious balm, 

And fill us with its own tranquiUty, 



FALLEN LEAVES 159 

We will not mar the scene — we will not look 

To the veil'd future, or the shadowy past ; 
Seal'd up shall be sad Memory's open book, 

And childhood's idleness return at last ! 
Joy, with his restless, ever-fluttering wings, 

And Hope, his gentle brother, — all shall cease; 
Like weary hinds that seek the desert springs, 

Our one sole feeling shall be peace — deep 
peace 1 



THE FALLEN LEAVES. 



We stand among the fallen leaves, 

Young children at our play, 
And laugh to see the yellow things 

Go rustling on their way : 
Right merrily we hunt them down, 

The adtumn winds and we. 
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie. 

Or sunbeams gild the tree : 
With dancing feet we leap along 

Where wither'd boughs are s!rown, 
Nor past nor future checks our song— 

The present is our own. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In youth's enchanted spring — 
When Hope (who wearies at the last) 



160 



FALLEN LEAVES. 



First spreads her eagle wing. 
We tread with steps of conscious strengtii 
i^eneath the leafless trees, 
And the color kindles in our cheek 

As blows the winter breeze ; 
While gazing towards the cold gray sky, 

Clouded with snow and rain, 
We wish the old year all past by, 

And the young spring come again. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In manhood's haughty prime — 
When first our pausing hearts begin 

To love " the olden time ;" 
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think 

How many a year hath pass'd 
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees 

Our footsteps wander'd last ; 
And old companions— now perchance 

Estranged, forgot, or dead- 
Come round us, as those autumn 

Are crush'd beneath our tread. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In our own autumn day — 
And, tott'ring on with feeble steps, 

Pursue our cheerless way. 
We look not back — too long ago 

Hath all we loved been lost ; 
Nor forward— for we may not live 

To see our new hope cross'd : 
But on we go— the sun's faint beam 



THE AUTUMN WIND. 



A feeble warmth imparts — 
Childhood without its joy returna- 
The present fills our hearts 1 



16] 



THE AUTUMN WIND. 



Hush, moaning autumn wind ! be still, be still ! 
Thy grieving voice forbiddeth hearts to rest ; 
We hear thee sweeping down the lonely hill, 
And mournful thoughts crowd o'er the human 
breast, 
Why wilt thou haunt us, with thy voice unkind, 
Sadd'ning the ea«h? Hush, moaning autumn 
wind ! 

Toss not the branching trees so wildly high, 
Filling the forest with thy dreary sound : 

Without f% aid the hues of summer die, 

And the sear leaves fall scatter'd to the ground. 

Thou dost but hasten, needlessly unkind, 

The winter's task, thou moaning autumn wind ! 

Sweep not through Ocean's caves with hollow 
roar, 
Driving our fair ships to some rock-bound 
strand ! 
While the vex'd sea foams wrathful to the shore, 
The seaman's wife looks shuddering from th« 
land, 
11 



162 THE AUTUMN WIND. 

And widow'd hearts for many a year shall find 
Death in thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind I 

Round our calm dwellings, when our hearths 
are gay, 
Roam not, oh howling Spirit of Despair! 
As tho' thou were a creature seeking prey, 
And where the land look'd richest, found it 
there. 
We have enough of memories unkind, 
Without thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! 

Thee the sad mourner lists, and turns to weep, 
In the blank silence- of her lonely home ; 

The sick man hears, and starts from broken sleep, 
And the night-wanderer sighs — compell'd to 
roam ; 

While the poor shiver, for their huts unkind 

Bar thee not out, thou searching autumn wind ! 

Back to the barren hill and lonely glen ! 

Here let the wandering of thy echoes cease ; 
Sadly thou soundest to the hearts of men, — 

Hush thy wild voice, and let the earth have 
peace ; 
Or, if «o chain thy restless will can bind, 
Sweep thro, the desert, moaning autumn wind . 



THE TRYST. 



I WENT, alone, to the old familiar place 

Where we often met, — 
When the twilight soften' d thy bright and radi 
ant face 

And the sun had set. 
All things around seem'd whispering of the pas?t 

With thine image blent — 
Even the changeful spray which the torrent cast 

As it downward went ! 
I stood and gazed with a sad and heavy eye 

On the waterfall — 
And with a shouting voice of agony 

On thy name did call 1 

With a yearning hope, from my wrung and 
aching heart 

I call'd on thee — 
And the lonely echoes from the rocks above 

They answcr'd me ! 
Glad and familiar as a household word 

Was that cherish'd name — 
But in that grieving hour, famtly heard, 

'Twas not the same ! 

163 



164 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 

Solemn and sad, with a distant knelling cry, 

On my heart it fell — 
'Twas as if the word '* Welcome" had been 
answer' d by 

The word "Farewell !" 



THF BANNER OF THE COVEN- 
ANTERS. 



At the Mareschal College at Aberdeen, among other 
valuable curiosities, they show one of the banners for- 
merly belonging to the Covenanters ; it is of white 
silk, with the motto, " Spe Expecto," in red letters; 
and underneath, the English inscription, " For Reli- 
gion, King, and Kingdoms." Thebanner is much torn, 
but otherwise in good preservation. 



Here, where the rain-drops may not fall, 

The sunshine doth not play, 
Where the unfelt and distant breeze 

In whispers dies away ; 
Here, where the stranger paces slow 

Along the silent halls. 
Why mutely art ihou hanging thus 

Against the massive walls? 
Thou, that hast seen blood shed for thee— 

That midst the battle-tide 
Haat faintly lit the soldier's eye 



THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS 165 

With triumphs ere he died ; 
Bright banner, which hath witness'd oft 

The struggles of the free, 
Emblem of proud and holj' hope, 

Is this a place for thee 1 

Wake ! wave aloft, thou banner ! 

Let every snowy fold 
Float on our wild, unconquer'd hills, 

As in the days of old : 
Hang out, and give again to Death 

A glory and a charm, 
Where Heaven's pure dew may freshen the*, 

And fleaven's pure sunshine warm. 
Wake, wave aloft ! I hear the silk 

Low rustling on the breeze, 
Which whistles through the lofty fir, 

And bends the birchen trees; 
I hear the tread of warriors arm'd 

To conquer or to die ; 
Their bed or bier the heathery hill, 

Their canopy the sky. 

What, what is life or death to them ? 

They only feel and know 
Freedom is to be struggled for, 

With an unworthy foe — 
Their homes — their hearths — the all for which 

Their fathers, too, have fought, 
And liberty to breathe the prayers 

Their cradled lips were taught. 



166 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTEKa. 

On, on they rush — hke mountain streams 

Resistlessly they sweep — 
On ! those who Vive are heroes now — 

And martyrs those who sleep ! 
While still the snow-white Banner waves 

Above the field of strife, 
With a proud triumph, as it were 

A thing of soul and life. 

They stand — they bleed — they fall ! they mak« 

One brief and breathless pause, 
And gaze with fading eyes upon 

The standard of their cause ; — 
Again they brave the strife of death, 

Again each weary limb 
Faintly obeys the warrior soul, 

Tho' earth's best hopes grow dim;^ 
The mountain-rills are red with blood. 

The pure and quiet sky 
Rings with the shouts of those who win, 

The groans of those who die ; 
Taken — re -taken — raised again, 

But soil'd with clay and gore. 
Heavily, on the wild free breeze, 

That Banner floats once more. 

T hear the wail of women now : 

The dreadful day is done : 
God's -reatures wait to strive and slay 

Until to-morrow's sun : 
I hear the heavy breathing of 

The weary ones who sleep. 



JTHE BANKER OF THE COVENANTERS. IG'7 

The death-sob and the dying word, 

*' The voice of them that weep ;" 
The half-choked grief of those who, while 

They stifle back their breath, 
Scarce knew if what they watch be hush'd 

In slumber or in death ; 
While mournfully, as if it knew 

And felt for their despair, 
The moon-lit Banner flaps and falls 

Upon the midnight air. 

Morning ! the glad and glorious light ! 

The waking of God's earth, 
Which rouses men to stain with gore 

The soil that gave them birth. 
[n the still sunshine sleeps the hill, 

The stream, the distant town ; 
In the still sunshine — clogg'd and stiff — 

The battle-flag hangs down. 

Peace is in Heaven, and Heaven's good gifts, 

But war is amongst men — 
Red blood is pouring on the hill, 

Wild shouts are in the glen ; 
'Tis past — they sink, they bleed, they fly — 

That faint, enfeebled host. 
Right is not might — the Banner-flag, 

The victory, are lost ! 

Heaven's dew hath drunk the crimson drops 

Which on the heather lay. 
The rills that were so red with gore, 



1G8 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 

Go sparkling on their way ; 
The Hmbs that fought, the hearts that swell'd. 

Are crumbled into dust, 
The souls which strove are gone to meet 

The spirits of the just ; 
But that frail silken flag, for which, 

And under which, they fought, 
(And which e'en now retains its power 

Upon the soul of thought,) 
Survives — a tatter'd, senseless thing — 

To meet the curious eye, 
And Vi^ake a momentary dream 

Of hopes and days gone by. 

A momentary dream I oh ! not 

For 07ie poor transient hour, 
Not for a brief and hurried day 

That flag exerts its power; 
Full flashing on our dormant souls 

The firm conviction comes, 
That what our fathers did for theirs. 

We could do for oxir homes. 
We, tou, could brave the giant arm 

That seeks to chain each word. 
And rule what form of prayer alone 

Shall by our God be heard : 
We, too, in triumph or defeat, 

Could drain our heart's best veins. 
While the good old cause of Liberty 

For Church and State remains! 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 



It was a Highland chieftain's son 

Gazed sadly from the hill : 
And they saw him shrink from the autums 
wind, 

As its blast came keen and chill. 

His stately mother saw, — and spoke 
With the heartless voice of pride; 

" 'T is well I have a stouter son 
The border wars to ride." 

His jealous brother saw, and stood, 

Red-hair'd, and fierce, and tall. 
Muttering low words of fiendish hope 

To be the lord of all. 

But sickly Allan heard them not, 
As he look'd o'er land and lea ; 

He was thinking of the sunny climes 
That lie beyond the sea. 

He was thinking of the native land 
Whose breeze he could not bear , 

169 



170 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 

Whose wild free beauty he must leave, 
To breath a warmer air. 

He was dreaming of his childhood's haunts, 
And his grey-hair'd father's praise ! 

And the chance of death which hung so neal 
And darken'd his young days. 

So he turn'd, and bade them both farewell, 
With a calm and mournful smile; 

And he spoke of dwelling far away, 
But only for awhile. 

And if a pang of bitter grief 

Shot wildly through his heart, 
No man heard Allan Douglass sigh. 

Nor saw the tear-drop start : 

For he left in Scotland none who cared 

If e'er he should return, 
In castle hall, or cottage low. 

By river or by burn. 

Only upon the heather brae 

His quivering lip he press'd ; 
And clasp'd the senseless birchen tree, 

And strain'd it to his breast ; 

Because the human heart is full 

Of love that must be given, 
However check'd, estranged, and chill'd, 

To something under Heaven. 



THE ROCK 0? THE BETRAYED. 171 

And these things had been friends to him 

Thro' a hie ol' lonely hours — 
The blue lake, and the waving birch, 

And the low broom's scented flowers. 



Twice had the snow been on the hills, 
And twice the soft spring rain, 

When Allan Douglass bent his way 
To his native land again. 

More healthful glow'd his hollow cheek, 

His step was firm and free, 
And he brought a fair Italian girl, 

His bonny bride to be. 

But darkly sneer'd his brother cold, 
When he saw that maiden fair, 

'* Is a foreign minion come to wed 
The Highland chieftain's heir ?" 

And darkly gloom'd the mother's brow 

As she said, "Am I so old, 
That a stranger must so soon come her© 

The castle keys to hold ?" 

Then spoke the young Italian girl 
With a sweet and modest grace, 

As she lifted up her soft black eyea 
And look'd them in the face : 

" A stranger and an orphan comes 
To Allan's native land, 



172 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYEI. 

And she needs the mother's welcome smile, 
And the brother's friendly hand. 

** Be thine ! oh, stately lady— thine— ■ 

The rq^Ie that thou dost crave, 
For Allan's love is all I earn'd, 

And all I seek to have. 

"And trust me, brother, tho' my words 

Jn foreign accents fall, 
The heart is of no country born, 

And my heart will love you alV* 

But vain the music of her tongue 

Against the hate they bore ; 
And when a babe her love had bless'd 

They hated her the more. 

They hated her the more because 

That babe must be the heir, 
And his dark and lovely eyes at times 

His mother's look would bear. 

But lo! the keen cold winter came 

With many a bitter blast : 
It pierc'd thro' sickly Allan's frame, 

He droop' d and died at last ' 

Oh ! mournfully at early morn 
That young wife sat and wept, — 

And mournfully, when day was done. 
To her widow'd couch she crept, — 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 173 

And mournfully at noon she rock'd 

The baby on her knee ; 
" There is no pity in their hearts, 

My child, for thee and me. 

" There was no pity in their hearts 

For him who is at rest : 
How should they feel for his young son 

Who slumbers at my breast?" 

The red-hair'd brother saw her tears, 
And said, " Nay, cease thy moan — 

Come forth into the morning air, 
And weep no more alone !" 

The proud step-mother chid her .,oe;— 

" Even for thy infant's sake 
Go forth into the morning air, 

And sail upon the lake !" 

There seem'd some feeling for her state ; 

Their words were fair and mild ; 
Yet she shudder'd as she vvhisper'd low, 

" God shield me and my child !" 

'* Come !" said the dead Allan's brother stern, 

" Why dost thou tremble so ? 
* * Come ! ' ' — and with doubt and fear perplex'd, 

The lady rose to go. 

They glided over the glassy lake, 
'Till its lulling murnrir smote, 



174 THE ROCH OF THE BETRAYED. 

With a death-like omen, to and fro*, 
Against the heaving boat. 

And no one spoke ; — that brother stil 

His face averted kept, 
And the lady's tears fell fast and free 

O'er her infant as it slept. 

The cold faint evening breeze sprang up 
And found them floating on ; 

They glided o'er the glassy lake 

Till the day's last streak was gone— 

Till the day's last streak had died away 
From the chill and purple strand, 

And a mist was on the water's face 
And a damp dew on the land ; 

Till you could not trace the hving hue 

Of lip, or cheek, or eye, 
But the outline of each countenance 

Drawn dark against the sky. 

And all things had a ghastly looA, 
An aspect strange and drear ; — 

The lady look'd to the distant shore 
And her heart beat wild with fear. 



There is a rock whose jutting height 
Stands frr wning o'er that lake. 



THE ROCK OF THE EETKAYED. 175 

Where the faintest call of the bugle horn 
The echo's voice will awalie :— 

And there the water lifts no wave 
To the breeze, so fresh and cool. 

But lies within the dark rock's curve, 
Like a black and gloomy pool, 

Its depth is great,— a stone thrown in 

Hath a dull descending sound, 
The plummet hath not there been cast 

Which resting-place hath found. 

And scatter'd firs and birch-trees grow 
On the summit, here and there — 

Lonely and joylessly they wave, 
Like an old man's thin gray hair. 

But not to nature's hand it owes 

Its mournfulness alone. 
For vague tradition gives the spot 

A horror of its own. 

The boatman doffs his cap beneath 

Its dark o'er hanging shade, 
And whispers low its Gaelic name,— 

" The Rock of the Betray'd." 

And when the wind, which never curls 

That pool, goes sweeping by, 
Bending the firs and birchen trees 

With a low and moaning sigh,— 



.76 WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 

He'll tell you that the sound which comes 
So strange, and faint, and din^i, 

Is only heard at one set hour, 
And call'd "the Lady's Hymn." 



WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 



" Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him 5 
but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shal. 
return no more, nor see his native country." — Jtn- 
•niah, xxii, 10. 



Weep not tor him that dieth — 

For he sleeps, and is at rest ; 
And the couch whereon he heth 

Is the green earth's quiet breast: 
But weep for him who pineth 

On a far land's hateful shore, 
Who wearily declineth 

Where ye see his face no more ! 

Weep not for him that dieth. 

For friends are round his bed, 
And many a young lip sigheth 

When they name the early dead " 
But weep for him that liveth 

Where none will know or care, 
When the groan his faint heart giveth 

Is the last sigh of despair. 



THE CHILD OF EARTiI. IT? 

Weep not for him that dieth, 

For his struggling soul is free,, 
And the world from which it flieth 

Is a world of misery ; 
But weep for him that weareth 

The captive's galling chain : 
To the agony he heareth, 

Death were but little pain. 

Weep not for him that dieth, 

For he hath ceased irom tears, 
And a voice to his replieth 

Which he hath not heard for years ; 
But weep for him who weepeth 

On that cold land's cruel shore — 
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth, — . 

Weep for the dead no more ! 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 



Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, 

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow • 
Vet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

" I am content to die, but, oh I not now ! 
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps 
wr/^athe. 
12 



178 THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

Sj)are me, great God, lift up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but, oh I not now !" 

The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time, 

The season's viewless boundary is past ; 
The glorious sun haih reach'd his burning prime ; 

Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? 
* Let me not perish while o'er land and lea. 

With silent steps the lord of light moves on ; 
Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee 

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone ! 
**ale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my 

brow ; 
' am content to die — but, oh 1 not now !" 

Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues 

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn; 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, 

Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. 
" Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows anc the quiet stream, 
To watch in silence while the evening rays 

Slant thro' the fading trees with ruddy gleam I 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die — but, oh I not now !" 

The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far 
and near. 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear, 

Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. 



THE CHRISTENING. 179 

Yet Still that prayer ascends: — " Oh! laugh- 
ingly 
My little brothers round the warm hearth 
crowd, 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, 
And the roof rings with voices glad and loud ; 
Spare me awhile I raise up my drooping brow • 
I am content to die — but, oh ! not now !" 

The spring is come again — the joyful spring ! 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are 
spread ; 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing : — 

The child of earth is number'd with the dead ' 
" Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, 
Beaming all readily thro' the lattice-pane ; 
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again I 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow ; 
Why didst thou hnger I — thou art happier now !'» 



THE CHRISTENING. 



Helpless thou liest, thy little waxen face 
Eagerly scann'd by our inquiring glances, 

Hoping some lovely hkeness there to trace, 
Which fancj finds and st thy worth enhances. 



180 THE CHRISTEiNINff. 

Clothing with thought mature, and power oi 

mind, 
Those infant features, yet so faintly lined. 

And still thy youthful mother bendeth down 
Her large, soft, loving eyes, brimful of glad- 
ness, 

Her check almost as waxen as thine own, 
Her heart as innocently free from sadness: 

And still a brighter smile her red lip wears, 

As each her young son's loveliness declares. 

And sometimes as we gaze a sigh is heard, 
(Though from the happy group all grief seerr.^ 
banish'd') 
As thou recallest, little nestling bird. 

Some long familiar face whose light hath 
vanish'd ; 
Some name, which yet hath power our hearts to 

thrill- 
Some smile whose buried beauty haunts us still ! 

Ah ! most to Her, the early widow'd, come 
Thoughts of the blossoms that from earth 
have perish'd ; 
Lost to her lone and solitary home, 
Though in her brooding memory fondly 
cherish'd : — 
Her little grandson's baby smiles recall 
Not one regretted hope of youth, but all! 



THE CIIRISTENIXG. 181 

Her Fon's son lies upon her cradling knee, 
And bids her heart return, with mournful 
dreaming, 
To her own first horn's helpless infancy, 
When hope— youth's guiding star — was bright- 
ly beaming; 
And He, who died too soon, stood by and smiled, 
And bless'd ahke ihe mother and her child. 

Since then, how many a year hath fleeted past ! 

What unforseen events, what joys, what sor- 
rows, 
With sunshine or with clouds have overcast 

The long succession of her lonely morrows; 
Ere musing o'er this fair and new-born face, 
A fresh link carried on her orphan'd race ! 

Fair child, that race is not by man's award 
Ennobled, — but by God ; no titles sounded 

By herald's trump, or smooth and flattering bard. 
Proclaim within what lines thy rank is bound- 
ed :— 

Thy power hereditary none confine. 

The gift of Genius, boy, by right is thine! 

Be humble, for it is an envied thing ; 

And men whose creeping hearts have long 
submitted 
Around the column'd height to clasp and cling 
Of Tilled Pride — by man to man transiiit 
ted,— 



182 THE CHRISTENING-. 

Will grudge the power they have less cause to 

dread, 
Oppose the hving, and maUgn when dead. 

One of thy hneage served his country well 

(Though wiih her need her gratitude departed;) 
What in her memory now is left to dwell ? 
The faults of him who died hall broken-heart- 
ed:— 
And those, whose envious hands ne'er stretch'd 

to save, 
Pluck down the laurels springing from his grave. 

Yet hush ! it is a solemn hour ; and far 
Be human bitterness and vain upbraiding; 

With hope we watch thy rising, thou young star, 
Hope not all earthly, or it were too fading; 

For we are met to usher in thy life, 

With prayer,— which lifteth hearts, and quell- 
eth strife ! 

Hush'd is the busy group, and still as death ; 

All at the sacred altar meekly kneeling ; 
For thy sake, who so lately drew ihy breath. 

All unto Heaven with earnest heart appealing. 
A solemn voice addresses the Most High, 
And with a murmuring echo wereply. 

All holy be th3 hour I and, oh! may Heaven 
Look down and bless the anxious mother'r 
part, 
As rneekly she confides the treasure given 



r 

THE MOTHER S LAST -WATCH. .183 

So lately to her young and hoping heart ; 
And pleads that God's great love may be his 

stay, 
And guide her little Wanderer on his way. 

So let it be ! and when the noble head 
Of thy true-hearted father, babe beloved, 

Now glossy dark, is silver-gray instead, 

And thy young birth-day far away removed ; 

JItill may'st thou be a comfort and a joy, — 

ikiW welcome as this day, unconscious boy ! 



THE MOTHER'S LAST WATCH. 



Written on the occasion of the death of the infant 
•} lughter of Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland. 



ITark, through the proudly decorated halls, 

How strangely sounds the voice of bitter woe, 
M^here steps that dread their echo as it I'alls 

Steal silently and sadly to and fro. 
There wither'd lies the bud so lately given, 

And, beautiful in grief as when she smiled, 
Bow'd 'neath the unexpected stroke of Heaven, 

The mourning xMother watches o'er her Child. 

Tis her last Watch ! Sleep seals those infan! 
lids 



184 THE MOTHER & LAST WATCH. 

Dark fall the lashes on that roseleaf cheek — 
But oh ! — the look is there, which Hope forbids; 
Of Death — of Death those heavy eyelida 
speak ! — 
*Tis her last Watch ! — no more thatgentle iiand 
With cautious love shall curtain out the light- 
No more that graceful form shall mutely stand 
And bless thy slumbers thro' the shadowy 
night. 

Hush'd is the innocent heart which throbbing 
pain, 

Vain hope, and vain regret had never moved. 
The God who gave hath claim'd his gift again, 

And angels welcome her, on earth so loved. 
Yet still of hope and fear the endless strife 

Within that Mother's bosom faintly swells, 
Still, still she gazes on, and dreams of life, 

Though the fond falsehood Reason's povv'i 
repels. 

Unheard each word of comfort faintly ialls 
From lips whose tones in other days were 
dear, 

Her infant's smile is all her heart recalls, — 
Her infant's voice is all her heart can hear ; — 

She clasps its hand, the feverish glow oHiers 
Wakes into warmth the freezing current's 
flow ; 

She bends, — her sobbing breath a ringlet stirs 

With mimic hfo upon its pallid brow. 



THE MOTHER S LAST WATCH. 185 

Oh ! what a mournful thing is human love ! 

In happier days of hope and bhss gone by, 
The Mother's heart with pitying throb would 
move 

If but a tear drop dimm'd that laughing eye : 
And now she prays that Heaven the boon may 
give 

To hear from those pale lips a cry of pain- 
Aught that could bid her sinking soul revive, 

And tell the mourner thou wert hers again ! 

Ah ! never more that dream of hope may be ! — 

The summer breeze among the boughs shall 
wave, 
The summer sun beam bright o'er land and lea, 

But thou, no spring shall wake thee from the 
grave ! 
No more those little rosy lips shall greet 

With brightly sudden smile her look of pride ; 
No more with fait' ring steps those fairy feet 

Shall totter onward to her cherish'd side. 

All, all is over ! See, with painful start 

She wakens from her trance to feel the whole, 
And know the pang even from thy corse to part — 

Thou vainly guarded treasure of her soul' 
The hand that, ah ! so often hath caress'd, 

Aids now to place thee in thy narrow bed I 
The last wild kiss upon thy cheek is press' d— 

The last fond tear upon thy coffin shed ! 
And all is hush'd : but oft thro' Life's dull track 

i^When time her present sorrow hath beguiled) 



186 THE ARAE S FAREWELL TC .IIS HORSE. 

That pale, sweet brow shall dimly bring us back 
The Mother's last Watch o'er her fairy Child! 



THE APAB'S FAREWELL TO 
HIS HORSE. 



My beautiful ! my beautiful ! 

That standest meekly by 
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, 

And dark and fiery eye ; 
Fret not to roam the desert now, 

With all thy winged speed — 
/ may not mount on thee again — 

Thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! 
Fret not with that impatient hoof- 
Snuff not the breezy wind — 
The further that thou fliest now, 

So far am I behind ; 
The stranger hath thy bridle rein — 

Thy master hath his gold — 
Fleet-limbed and beautiful ! farewell! — 

Thou'rt sold, my steed— thou'rt sold! 

Farewell ! those free untired limbs 

Full many a mile must roam. 
To reach the chill and wintry sky, 

Which clouds the stranger's home; 
Some other hand, less %nd, must now 



THE ARAB S FAREAVELL TO HIS HORSE. 187 

Thy corn and bread prepare : 
The silky mane I braided once, 

Must be another's care I 
The morning sun shall dawn agahi, 

But never more with thee 
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, 

Where we were wont to be : 
Evening shall darken on the earth ; 

And o'er the sandy plain 
Some other steed, with slower step, 

Shall bear me home again. 

Yes, thou must go ! the wild, free breeze, 

The brilliant sun and sky, 
Thy master's home — from all of these. 

My exiled one must fly. 
Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, 

Thy step become less fleet, 
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, 

Thy master's hand to meet. 
Only in sleep shall I behold 

That dark eye, glancing bright- 
Only in sleep shall hear again 

That step so firm and light: 
And when I raise my dreaming arm 

To check or cheer ihy speed, 
Then must I starting wake, to feel— 

Thou'rt sold, my Arab steed ! 

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, 
Some cruel hand may chide, 



188 THE ARAB S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE. 

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves 

Along thy panting side : 
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, 

In thy indignant pain, 
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, 

May count each started vein. 
Will they ill use thee ? If I thought- 

But no, it cannot be — 
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; 

So gentle, yet so free. 
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, 

My lonely heart should yearn — 
Can the hand which casts thee from it now 

Command thee to return ? 



Betitr?i ! — alas ! my Arab steed ! 

What shall thy master do, 
When thou who wert his all of joy, 

Hast vanished from his view ? 
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, 

And through the gathering tears 
Thy bright form, for a moment, 

Like the false mirage appears. 
Slow and unmounted will I roam, 

With weary foot alone. 
Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, 

Thou oft has borne me on ; 
And sitting down by that green well, 

I'll pause and sadly think, 
" It was here he bowed his glossy neck, 

When last J. saw him drink !" 



THE FEVER-DEEAM. 1S9 

When last 1 saw thee drink /—away 1 

The fevered dream is o'er — 
I could not live a day, and know 

That we should meet no more! 
They tempted me, my beautiful ! 

For hunger's power is strong — 
They tempted me my beautiful! 

But I have loved too long. 
Who said that I had given thee up ?-"• 

Who said that thou wert sold ? 
'Tis false, — 'tis false, my Arab steed 1 

I fling them back their gold ! 
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, 

And scour the di.stant plains ; 
Away I who overtakes us now, 

Shall claim thee for his pains. 



THE FEVER-DREAM. 



iT was a fever-dream ; I lay 
Awake, as in the broad bright day, 
But faint and worn I drew my breath 
lake those who wait for coming death ; 
And my hand lay helpless on my pillow 
Weak as a reed or bending willow ; 
And the night-lamp, with its shadowy veil, 
And its light so sickly, faint, and pale; 
Gleamo.l mournfuLy on objects round; 



lyO THE FEVER-DREAM. 

And the clock's stroke was the only sound? 

Measuring the hours of silent lime 

With a heavy and unwelconne chime, 

As siill monotonously true 

'J'o its pulse- like beat, the minutes flew. 

I was alone, but not asleep; 
Too weary, and too weak to weep, 
My eyes had closed in sadness there ; 
And they who watched o'er my despair 
Had placed that dim light in the room, 
And deepened the surrounding gloom, 
By curtaining out the few sad rays 
Which made things present to my gaze ; 
And all because they vainly thought 
At last tiie night its rest had brought, — 
Alas ! rest came no more to me 
So heavy was my misery ! 

They left me, and my heart was filled 
"With wandering dreams, whose fancies thrilled 
Painfully through my feeble brain, 
Till I almost wished them back again. 
Yet wherefore should I bid them stay ? 
They could not chase those dreams away, 
But only watch me as I lay. 

They left me, and the midnight stroke 
From the old clock the silence broke , 
And with a wild repining sigh 
I wished it were my time to die ! 



THE FEVER-DREAM. 19 

And then, with spirit all dismayed, 
For that wild wish, forgiveness prayed, 
Humbling myself to God's high power 
To bear His will, and-wait His hour. 

And while I darkly rested there. 
The breath of a young child's floating hair. 
Perfumed, and warm, and glistening bright, 
Swept past me in the shrouding night ; — 
And the footsteps of children, light and quic'ic, 
(While my heart beat loud, and my breath came 

thick) 
Went to and fro on the silent floor ; — 
And the lock was turned in the fastened door, 
As a child may turn it, who tiptoe stands 
With his fair round arms and his dimpled hands, 
Putting out all their strength in vain 
Admittance by his own means to gain : 
Till his sweet impatient voice is heard 
Like the chirp of a young imprisoned bird, 
Seeking an entrance still to win 
By fond petitions to those within. 

A child's soft shadowy hair, bright smilea 
His merry laugh, and coaxing wiles, 
These are sweet things, — most precious thinga,— 
But in spite of my brain's wild wanderings, 
I knew that they dwell in my fancy only, 
And that I was sad, and left, and lonely; 
And the fear of a dreadful madness came 
And withered my soul like a parching flame ; 
And I felt the s.*rong drlirun growing. 



J 92 ATARAXIA. 

And the thread of my feeble senses going, 
And I hoard with a horror a^l untold 
Which turned my iioi blood icy-cold, 
Those light steps draw more near my bed; 
And by visions I was visited, 
Of the gentle eyes which I might not see, 
And the faces that were so far from me ! 

And blest, oh ! blest was the morning beam 
Which woke me up from my fever-dream ! 



ATARAXIA. 



Come o'er the green hills to the sunny sea !— 

The boundless sea that washeth many landa, 
Where shells unknown to England, fair and 
free, 

Lie brightly scattered on the gleaming sands. 
There, 'midst the hush of slumbering ocean's 
roar, 

We '11 sit and watch the silver-tissued waves 
Creep languidly along the basking shore, 

And kiss thy gentle feet, like Eastern slaves. 

And we will take some volume of our choice, 

Full of a quiet poetry of thought; 
And thou shah read me. wiiJ^ thy plaintive voice, 



ATARAXIA. 



193 



Lines which some gifted mind hath sweetly 
wrought. 

And I will listen, gazing on thy face- 
Pale as some cameo on th' Italian shell— 

Or looking out across the far blue space 
Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell, 

Come forth I The sun hath flung on Thetis* 
breast 
The glittering tresses of his golden hair; 
All things are heavy with a noonday rest, 

And floating sea-birds leave the stirless air. 
Against the sky, in outlines clear and rude, 
The cleft rocks stand, while sunbeams slant 
between ; 
And lulling winds are murmuring through tha 
wood 
Which skirts the bright bay with its fringe of 
green. 

Come forth ! All motion is so gentle now, 

It seems thy step alone should walk the 
earth — 
Thy voice alone, the ' ever soft and low, 

Wake the far-haunting echoes into birth. 
Too wild would be Love's passionate store of 
hope — 

Unmeet the influence of his changeful power; 
Ours be Companionship, whose gentle scope 

Hath charm enough for such a tranquil hour. 

[n that, no jealously — no wild regret 
Lies like deep poison in a flower's bright cuft 
13 



L 



194 ATARAXIA. 

Which thirsty lips for ever seek, and yet 
For ever murmur as they drink it up. 

The memory oi thy beauty ne'er can rise 
With haunting bitterness in days to come ; 

Thy name can never choke my heart with sighs, 
Nor leave the vex'd tongue faltering, faint, and 
dumb. 

Therefore come forth, oh gentle friend I and 
roam 
Where the high cliffs shall give us ample 
shade. 
And see how glassy lie the waves, whose foam 
Hath power to make the seaman's heart afraid. 
Seek thou no veil to shroud thy soft brown hair — 
Wrap thou no mantle round thy graceful 
form ; 
The cloudless sky smiles forth as still and fair 
As though earth ne'er could know another 
storm. 

Come ! Let not listless sadness make delay- 
Beneath Heaven's light that sadness will de- 
part ; 
And as we wander on our shoreward way, 
A strange, sweet peace shall enter in thine 
heart. 
We will not weep, nor talk of vanish'd years, 
When, link by hnk Hope's glittering chain 
was riven ; 



ATARAXIA. 195 

Those who are dead shall claim from love no 
tears — 
Those who have injured us shall be forgiven. 

Few have my summers been, and fewer thine ; 

Youth ruined, is the weary lot of both ; 
To both, all lonely shows our life's dechne — 
Both with old friends and ties have waxed 
wroth. 
But yet we will not weep ! The breathless 
calm 
Which lulls the golden earth, and wide blue 
sea, 
Shall pour into our souls mysterious balm, 
And fill us with its own tranquillity. 

We will not mar the scene-^we will not look 

To the veil'd future, or the shadowy past ; 
Seal'd up shall be sad Memory's open book, 

And Childhood's idleness return at last ! 
Joy, with his restless, ever-fluttering wings. 

And Hope, his gentle brother — all shall cease; 
Like weary hinds that seek the desert springs. 

Our one sole feeling shall be peace — deep 
peace ! 

Then come ! Come o'er the green hills to the 
sea — 

The boundless sea that washeih many lands 
And with thy plaintive voice, oh ! read to me. 

As we two sit UDon the golden sands. 



196 ON SEEIN& ANTHONY ASHLEY. 

And 1 will listen, gazing on thiat face — 
Pale as some cameo on th' Italian shell — 

Or looking out across the far blue space 
Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell '. 



ON SEEING ANTHONY ASHLEY. 



Ah ! then, what dreams of proud success, 
That lordly brow of beauty brought, 

With all its infant stateliness, 

And all its unripe power of thought ! 

What triumphs, boundless, unconfined, 

Came crowding on my wand'ring mind. 

I gave that child, the voice might hold 

A future senate in command ; 
Head clear and prompt— heart true and bold 

As quick to act as understand : 
I dream' d the scholar's fame achieved — 
The hero's wreath of laurel weaved ! 

But as I mused, a whisper came 

Which (like a friend's reproachful tone, 

Whose gentleness can smite with shame 
Far more than fiercest word or frown ;) 

Roused my vex'd conscience by its spell, 

And thus the whisper' d warning fell:— 

" Ah ! let the shrouded future be, 
With all its weight of distant care ' 



ON SEEING ANTHONY ASHLEY. 197 

Cloud not with dreams of vanity, 

That blue bright eye, and forehead fair l 
Nor cast thy worldly hopes and fears 
In shadow o'er his happy years ! 

" Desire not, even in thy dreams, 

To hasten those remoter hours 
Which, bright although their promise seems, 

Must strip his spring-time of its flowers !— 
AVhat triumph, in the time to come. 
Shall match these early days of home ? 

" This is the Eden of his life, — 

His little heart bounds glad and free : 

Amid a world of toil and strife. 
All independent smileth he ! 

Nor dreams by that sweet mother's side 

Of dark Ambition's restless pride. 

* But, like a bird in winter, — still 

Fill'd with a sweet and natural joy, 
Tho' frost hes bleak upon the hill, 

And mists obscure the cold grey sky. 
Which sings, tho' on a leafless bough,— 
He smiles, even at the gloomiest brow P' 

Oh ! looking on a child's fair face 
Methinks should purify the heart ; 

As angel presences have grace 
To bid the darker powers depart, 

And glorify our grosser sense 

With a reflectec innocence •' 



198 THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAAIEs's. 

And seeing thee, thou lovely boy, 

My soul, reproach'd, gave up its schemes 

Of worldly triumph's heartless joy, 
For purer and more sinless dreams, 

A.nd mingled in my farewell there 

Something of blessing and of prayer. 



THE GHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S. 



And they come forth anew, 
In bridal white, that gentle virgin band, 
The chosen flowers of Britain's happy land • 

For holy love and true 
Hath wrought an hour of hope without alloy — 
A fairy sight of splendour and of joy. 

There, — with her locks of light, 
Gleaming like gold around her noble head,— 
The orphan' d Eleanor, with stately tread, 

Went by, a vision bright ; 
Bidding sweet thoughts of love and triumph start 
Into a father's and a sister's heart. 

There, — in her beauty, pass'd 
Young Frances Cowper her transparent cheek 
Blushing the greetings which she might not 
speak. 

As on the crowd she cast 



THE CHAPEL KOYAL ST JAMEs's. 199 

The shy soft glances of those soft blue eyes, 
In whose unfathom'd depth such sweetness lies 1 

There, with her spotless name, 
The gentle Howard, good, and fair, and mild, 
A.nd bright-eyed BouvEPaE, noble Radnor's 
child, 
And rose-bud Villieks came ; 
And, with her sweet frank smile, young Ida 

Hay, 
Looking all gladness, like a morn in May. 

There, brilliant Lennox moved ; 
The Paget beauty shining from her brow, 
And the dark, deer-hke eyes that glanced be- 
low : 

While, gentle and beloved. 
Amid the glories of that courtly throng, 
Delawark's youthful daughter pass'd along. 

There, (theme ibr poet's praise !) 
With swanlike throat, and clear majestk eye, 
Verulam's stately Mary glided by ; — 

And, with her quiet gaze 
Fix'd smiling on the scene which she survey'd, 
The soldier Anglesea's bright Adelaide. 

And she, whose orbs of blue. 
Like mountain lakes beheld by moonlight, gleam 
With all the shadowy softness of a dream 

Sunh as Endymion knew 



200 THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES's. 

Whose glossy locks with rich luxuriance twine 
Around her brow : the Lady Wilhelmine. 

Young were they all — and fair, — 
But thou, Victoria, held'st thy fitting place, 
As amongst garden-flowers the lily's grace, 

Blooms with a royal air ; 
And from that lovely various group, apart, 
Did'st stand, and gently look the queen thou 
art. 

The smile thy young lip wore, 
Spoke joy to Him, who, from his distant home, 
Hath sped in wintry time o'er ocean's foam — 

To seek our island shore. 
With his frank heart, and brow so fair and true, 
Claiming thy love — and England's welcome too. 

Oh I may that welcome prove 
The herald of deep gladness ; — since in thee 
Old England's brightest hopes renew'd we see 

AU-hallow'd be thy love ; 
And still with proud content the day allied, 
When Princelv Albert claim'd his Royal 
Bride ! 

May He, whose gifted hand, 
Hath twined sweet wreaths of Poetry and Song 
Live happy among English hearts so long 

That, native to the land. 
He shall forget that e'er his harp was strung, 
To any accents but our mother-tongue : 



CHIDICK TYCHEORN. 201 

And thou, — Oh ! maj'^ the Crown 
Which in youth's freshest, earliest moment 

graced 
The brow, whose childhood's roses it replaced, 

Ne'er weigh thy spirits down ; 
Nor tearful hours, nor careful thoughts, beguile 
One ray of gladness from thy gracious smile : 

But brightly to the last, 
Fair fortune shine, with calm and steady ray, 
Upon the tenor of thy happy way ; 

A future hke the past : 
And every prayer by loyal subjects said, 
Bring down a separate blessing on thy head ! 



BY CHIDICK TYCHBORN, 

BEING- YOUNG, AND THEN IN THE TOWER, TOK 
NIGHT BEFORE KIS EXECUTION. 



My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, 
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, 

My crop of corn is but a field of tares. 
And all my good is but vain hope of gain, 

The day is past, and yet I saw no sun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, 
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green, 



202 



SPRIJVG. 



My youth is gone, and yet I am but young, 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen, 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 
And now I Uve, and now my life is done ! 

I sought my death, and found it in my room, 
I look'd for life, and saw it was a shade, 

1 trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb, 
And now I die, and now I am but made : 

The glass is full, and now my glass is run ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ' 



SPRING. 



The Spring is come ! the breath of May- 

Creeps whisperingly where brightest flowers 
have birth. 
And the young sun peeps forth with redder ray 

On the broad bosom of the teeming earth. 
The Spring is come ! how gladly nature wakes 

From the dark slumber of the vanished year 
How gladly every gushing streamlet breaks 

The summer stillness with its music clear ! 

But thou art old, my heart 1 the breath of 
Spring 
No longer swells thee with a rapturous glow ; 
The wild bird carol& blithely on the way, 



SPRING. 203 

But wakes no smile upon my withered brow. 
Thou art grown old ! no more the generous 
thought 
Sends the warm blood more swiftly through 
the veins — 
Selfish and cold thou shrinkest — Spring hath 
nought 
For thee but memory of vanished pains. 

The day-break brings no bounding from my 
rest, 

Eagerly glad, and strong in soul and limb ; 
But through the weary lid (unwelcome guest!) 

The sunlight struggles with a lustre dim. 
The evening brings no calm — the night no sleep, 

But feverish tossings on the hateful bed ; 
While the vexed thoughts their anxious vigils 
keep, 

Yet more to weary out the aching head. 

Still the deep grove — the bower — my footsteps 
seek : 

Still do 1 read beneath the flowery thorn ; 
And with a worn and hollow-eaten cheek, 

Woo the young freshness of the laughing 
morn. 
But now no pleasure in the well-known lines 

Expands my brow, or sparkles in mine eye ; 
O'er the dull page my languid head declines, 

And wakes the echo with a listless sigh. 



204 SPRIN&. 

Ah! mocking wind, that wandereth o'er my 

form, 
With freshened scents from every opening 
flower ; 
Deep — deep within the never-dying vs^orm — 
Life's longing's all unquenched, defy the 
power ! 
There coolness comes not with the cooling 
breeze — 
There music flows not with the gushing rill — 
There shadows calm not from the spreading 
trees — 
Unslaked, the eternal fever burneth still ! 

Mock us not, Nature, with thy symbol vain 
Of hope succeeding hope, through endless 
years — 
Earth's buds may burst — earth's groves be 
green again. 
But man — can man forget youth's bitter tears? 
I thirst — I thirst ! but duller day by day 

Grow the clogg'd soarings of my spirit** 
wing ; 
Faintly the sap of life slow ebbs away, 
And the worn heart denies a second Spring. 



THE FAITHFUL GUARDIAN.* 



Small need of care ! The stately hound, still 
calm and couchant lies, 

With lazy kindness Hfting up his wise and hon- 
est eyes; 

Declaring by the emblem meet of his serene 
repose, 

How frankly generous hearts can bear the bait- 
ing of mean foes. 

Not so, O ! noble-natured brute, would'st thou 

quiescent rest, 
If the sound of danger roused the blood within 

thy valiant breast ; 
If near these helpless little fays, — thy master's 

children — came 
The doubtful tread of stranger's feet, on whom 

they had on claim ; 

Then, then, upspringing with a bound, — arous- 
ed for their defence, -- 

♦Suggested by Mr. Edwin Landseer's celebrated 
Picture of the MarquiF of Aberconi'* Children. 

203 



206 THE FAITHFUL GUARDIAN. 

Each nerve would arm with savage strength thy 

keen and eager sense, 
And the darkly gleaming eyes v^here now such 

softened shadows play, 
Would burn like watch-fires, lit at night, to 

scare the foe awav. 

And were (he danger real to these, by whom 
thy watch is keoi., — 

E'er a rough hand should dare profane the cra- 
dle where they slept, 

E'er a rude step should reach the spot where 
now they smile at play, — 

Thy fangs would meet within his throat, to hold 
the wretch at bay I 

Thou would'st battle, noble creature, for these 

children of thy lord's. 
As meit fight for a Royal Prince, whose crown 

hangs on their swords ; — 
Soldiers, who hear their General's cry by 

treachery hemm'd in, — 
Freeman, who strike for home and earth, 'gainst 

Tyranny's proud sin, — 
So would'st thou strive ! And bold were he 

who then could lay thee low. 
For still thy fierce and mighty grasp would pin 

the struggling foe. 
And if keen sword, or human skill cut short thy 

gasping breath. 
Should he be thought thy conqueror ? — No !— 

Thy conqueror would be Death. 



XARIFA. 207 

Oh, tried and trusted ! Thou whose love ne'er 

changes nor forsakes. 
Thou proof how perfect God hath stamped the 

meanest thing he makes ; 
Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve, no art 

is used to lame, — 
(Train'd, Hke ourselves, thy path to know, by 

words of love and blame ;) 
Friend I who beside the cottage door, or in the 

rich man's hall, 
With steadfast faith still answerest the one 

familiar call, — 
Well by poor hearth and lordly home thy couch- 
ant form may rest, 
And Prince and Peasant trust thee still, to 

guard what they love best ! 



XARIFA. 



0:ne eve at spring-tide's close we took our way, 

When eve's last beams in soften'd gxory fell, 
Lighting her faded form with sadden'dray, 

And the sweet spot where we so lov'd to 
dwell. 
Faintly and droopingly she sat her down 

By the blue waters of the Guadalquiver, 
With darkness on her brow, but yet no frown, 

Like the deep shadow on that silent river. 
She sat her down, I say, with face upturn'd 



208 XARIFA. 

To the dim sky, which daylight was forsa* 

And in her eyes a light unearthly burn'd — 
The light which spirits give whose chains are 
breaking! 

And a half smile ht up that palhd brow, 

As, casting flowers upon the silent stream, 
She watch'd the frail, sweet blossoms glide and 
go 

Like human pleasure in a blissful dream. 
And then with playiul voice she gently flung 

Small shinning pebbles from the river's brink, 
And o'er the eddying waters sadly hung, 

Pleased, and yet sorrowful, to see them sink. 
"And thus," she said, "doth human love for 
get 

Its idols — some sweet blessings float away, 
FoUow'd by one long look of vain regret, 

As they are slowly hastening to decay ; 

And some, with sullen plunge, do mock our 

And suddenly go down into the tomb, 
Starthng the beating heart whose fond delight 

Chills into tears at that unlook'd for doom. 
And there remains no trace of them save such 

As the soft ripple leaves upon the wave. 
Or a forgotten flower, whose dewy touch 

Reminds us some are withering in the grave 
When all is over, and she is but dust. 

Whose heart so long hath held thy form en 
slirined : 



XARIFA. 209 

When I go hence, as soon as feel I must, 

Oh! let my memory, Isbal, haunt thy mind. 
When in thy daily musing thou dost bring 

Those scenes to mind in which I had a share ; 
When in thy nightly watch thy heart doth wring 
With thought of me — Oh! murmur forth a 
prayer ! 
A prayer for me — for thee — for all who live 

Together, yet asunder, in one home — 
Who their soul's gloomy secret dare not give. 

Lest it should blacken all their year to come. 
Yes, Isbal, yes; to thee I owe the shade 

That prematurely darkens on my brow ; 
And never had my lips a murmur made — 
But — but that — see ! the vision haunts me 
now!" 
She pointed to the river's surface, where 

Our forms were pictured seated side by side ; 
T gazed on them and hers was very fair ; 

And mine — was as thou seest it now, ray bride. 
But hers, though fair, was fading — wan and pale 
The brow whose marble met the parting day, 
Time o'er her form had thrown his misty veil. 
And all her ebon curls were streak'd with 
grey ; 
But mine was youthful — yes ! — such youth as 
glows 
In the young tree by lightning scathed and 
blasted — 
That, joyless, waves its black and leafless 
boughs, 
On which spring showers and summer warmth 
are wasted. 14 



THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 



I SAW him on the battle eve, 

When Uke a king he bore him ! 
Proud hosts in ghttering helm and greave, 

And prouder chief's before him : 
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, 
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — 
No daunting thoughts came o'er him ;— 
lie look'd around him, and his eye 
Defiance flash'd to earth and sky ! 

He look'd on ocean,— its broad breast 

Was covered with his fleet ; 
On earth,— and saw from east to west 

His banner'd millions meet : 
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, 
Shook with the war-cry of that host, 

The thunder of their feet ! 
He heard the imperial echoes ring- 
He heard, and/eZi himself a king ! 

I saw him next alone ; — nor camp 
Nor chief his steps attended, 



THE CARELESS WORD. 211 

Nor banners' blaze nor coursers' tramp, 
With war-cries proudly blended : — 

He stood alone, whom Fortune high 

So lately seem'd to deify, 

He who with heaven contended 

Fled, like a fugitive and slave ; 

Behind, the foe, — before, the wave ! 

He stood, — fleet, army, treasure gone, 

Alone, and in despair ! 
While wave and wind swept ruthless on.. 

For they were monarchs there ; 
And Xerxes in a single bark, 
Where late his thousand ships were darkj 

Must all thy fury dare ; — 
Thy glorious revenge was this. 
Thy trophy, deathless Salamis ! 



THE CARELESS WORD. 



A WORD is ringing thro' my brain. 
It was not meant to give me pain ; 
It had no tone to bid it stay. 
When other things had passed away 
It had no meaning more than all 
Which in an idle hour fall : 
It was when^r,«f the sound I heard 
A lightly uttered, careless word. 



212 THE CAKELESS WORD, 

That word — oh ! it doth haunt me now, 
In scenes of joy, in scenes of woe ; 
By night, by day, in sun or shade, 
With the half smile that gently played 
Reproachfully, and gave the sound 
Eternal power thro' life to wound. 
There is no voice 1 ever heard, 
So deeply fix'd as that one word. 

When in the laughing crowd some tone, 
Like those whose joyous sound is gone, 
Strikes on my ear, I shrink — for then 
The careless word comes back again. 
When all alone I sit and gaze 
Upon the cheerful home-fire blaze, 
Lo ! freshly as when first 'twas heard, 
Returns that hghtly uttered word. 

When dreams bring back the days of old, 
With all that wishes could not hold ; 
And from my feverish couch I start 
'J'o press a shadow to my heart — 
Amid its beating echoes, clear 
That little word I seem to hear: 
In vain I say, while it is heard, 
Why weep ? — 'twas but a foolish word. 

It comes— and with it come the tears, 
The hopes, the joys of former years ; 
Forgotten smiles, forgotten looks, 
Thick as dead leaves on autumn brooks, 



THEY" LOVED O.VE ANOTHER. 213 

And all as joyless, though they were 
The brightest things life's spring could share. 
Oh! would to God I ne'er had heard 
That hghtly uttered, careless word ! 

It was the first, the only one 
Of these which lips forever gone 
Breathed in their love — which had for me 
Rebuke of harshness at my glee : 
And if those lips were heard to say, 
" Beloved, let it pass away," 
Ah ! then, perchance — but I have heard 
The last dear tone — the careless word ! 

Oh ! ye who, meeting, sigh to part, 
Whose words are treasures to some heart, 
Deal gently, ere the dark days come, 
When earth haih but for o?ie a home ; 
Lest, musing o'er the past, like me, 
They feel their hearts wrung bitterly. 
And, heeding not what else they heard, 
Dwell weeping on a careless word. 



THEY LOVED ONE ANOTHER. 



They loved one another ! young Edward and 

his wife, 
And in their cottage-home they dwelt, apart 

from sin and strife. 



214 THEY LOVED ONE ANOTHER. 

Each evening Edward weary came from a day 

of honest toil, 
And Mary made the fire blaze, and smiled a 

cheerful smile. 
Oh! what was wealth or pomp to them, the 

gaudy glittering show, 
Of jewels blazing on the breast, where heavei 

a heart of woe ! 
The merry laugh, the placid sleep, were theirs 

they hated sloth. 
And all the little that they had, belonged ahka 

to both. 

For they loved another ! 

They loved one another ; but one of them is 

gone, 
And by that vainly cheertul hearth poor Edward 

sits alone. 
He gazes round on all which used to make his 

heart rejoice, 
And he misses Mary's gentle smile, he misses 

Mary's voice. 
There are many in this chilly world who would 

not care to part, 
Tho' they dwell together in one home, and 

ought to have one heart, 
And yet they live ! while never more those hap- 
py ones may meet ; 
And the echo from her home is gone, of Mary's 

busy feet : 

And they loved cne another ! 



MY childhood's HOME. 215 

They loved one another ! but she hath passed 

away, 
And taken with her all the light, the sunshine 

of his day ; 
And Edward makes no loud lament, nor idly 

sits and mourns. 
But quietly goes forth at morn, and quietly re- 
turns. 
The cottage now is still and dark, no welcome 

bids him home. 
He passes it and wanders on, to sit by Mary's 

tomb. 
Oh ! weep my friends — for very sad and bitter 

it must be 
To yearn for some familiar face v/e never more 

may see — 

When we loved one another ! 



MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 



I HAVE tasted each varied pleasure, 
And drunk of the cup of delight ; 

I have danced to the gayest measure 
In the halls of dazzling light. 

I have dwelt in a blaze of splendour, 
And stood in the courts of kings ; 

T have snatched at each toy that could render 



216 OLD FRIENDS. 

More rapid the flight of Time's wings. 
But vainly Tve sought for joy or peace, 

In that life of light and shade ; 
A.nd I turn with a sigh to my own dear home— 

The home where my childhood played ! 

When jewels are sparkhng round me, 

And dazzling with their rays, 
I, weep for the ties that bound me 

In life's first early days. 
I sigh for one of the sunny hours 

Ere day was turned to-night ; 
For one of my nosegays of fresh wild ilowers, 

Instead of those jewels bright. 
I weep when I gaze on the scentless buds 

Which never can bloom or fade ; 
ind 1 turn with a sigh to those gay green 
fields — 

The home where my childhood played. 



OLD FRIENDS. 



How are they waned and faded from ©ur hearts, 
The old companions of our early days ! 
Of all the many loved, which name imparts 
Regret when blamed, or rapture at its praise? 
What are t<heir several fates, by Heaven de« 
creed, 



OLD FRIENDS. 21? 

They of the jocund heart, and careless brow? 
Alas ! we scarcely know and scarcely heed, 
Where, in this world of sighs, they wander 
now. 

See, how with cold faint smile, and courtly nod, 
They pass, whom wealth and revelry divide — 
Who walked together to the house of God, 
Read from one book, and rested side by side ; 
No look of recognition lights the eye 
Which laughingly hath met that fellow face; 
With careless hands they greet and wander by, 
Who parted once with tears and long embrace. 

Oh, childhood ! blessed time of hope and love, 
When all we knew was Nature's simple law, 
How may we yearn again that time to prove. 
When we looked round, and loved what'er we 

saw. 
Now dark suspicion wakes, and love departs. 
And cold distrust its well- feigned smile dis- 
plays ; 
And they are waned and faded from our hearts, 
The old companions of our early days ! 



WHEN POOR IN ALL BUT HOPE 
AND LOVE. 



II 

II 



When, poor in all but hope and love, 
I clasped thee to my faithful heart ; 
For wealth and fame I vowed to rove, 
That we might meet no more to part ! 
Years have gone by — long weary years 
Of toil, to win thee comfort now — 
Of ardent hopes — of sickening fears — 
And v.'ealth is mine — but where art thou ? 

Fame's dazzling dreams, for thy dear sake, 
Those brighter than before to me ; 
I clung to all I. deemed could make 
My burning heart more worthy thee. 
Years have gone by — the laurel droops 
In mockery o'er my joyless brow : 
A conquered world before me stoops, 
And Fame is mine — but where art thou ? 

In life's first hours, despised and lone, 
I wandered through the busy crowd ; 
But now that life's best hopes are gone, 

218 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 2iD 

They greet with pride and murmurs loud. 
Oh ! for thy voice ! thy happy voice, 
To breathe its laughing welcome now ; 
Wealth, fame, and all that should rejoice, 
To me are vain — for where art thou ? 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS 
TOGETHER. 



We have been friends together, 

In sunshine and in shade ; 

Since first beneath the chesnut trees 

In infancy we played. 

But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 

We have been friends together — 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been gay together ; 
We have laughed at little jests ; 
For the fount of hope was gushing 
Warm and joyous in our breasts. 
But laughter now hath fled thy lip^ 
And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
We have been gay together — 
Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been sad together, 
We have wept with bitter tears, 



220 THE MOURNERS. 

O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumbered 

The hopes of early years. 

The voices which are silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 

VVe have been sad together — 

Oh ! What shall part us now ? 



THE MOURNERS. 



Low she lies, who blest our eyes 

Through many a sunny day ; 
She may not smile she will not rise — 

The lite hath past away 1 
Yei there is a world of light beyond, 

Where we neither die nor sleep — 
She is there, of whom our souls were fond — 

Then wherefore do we weep ? 

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told 
In each glance of her glad bright eye ; 

And she lies pale, who was so bright, 
She scarce seemed made to die. 

Yet we know that her soul is happy now, 
Where the saints their calm watch keep ; 

That angels are crowning that fair young brow- 
Then wherefore do we weep ? 

tier laughing voice made all rejoice. 
Who caught the happy sound ; 



THE MOURNEKS. 221 

There was gladness in her very step, 
As it hghily touched the ground. , 

The echoes of voice and step are gone; 
There is silence still and deep : 

Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne- 
Then wherefore do we weep ? 

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, 
That lies like a shadow there, 

Were beautiful in the eyes of all — 
And her glossy golden hair I 

But though that lid may never wake 
From its dark and dreamless sleep, 

She is gone were young hearts do not break- 
Then wherefore do we weep ? 

That world of light with joy is bright, 

This is a world of woe : 
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flightj 

Because we dwell below ? 
We will bury her under the mossy sod, 

And one long bright tress we'll keep ; 
We have only given her back to God — 

Ah ! wherefore do we weep ? 



WOULD I WERE WITH THEE! 



Would I were with thee ! every day and bout 
Which now I spend so sadly, far from thee— 
Would that my form possessed the magic 

power 
To follow where my heavy heart would be ! 
Whate'er thy lot — by land or sea — 
Would I were with thee — eternally ! 

Would I were with thee ! when, the world for- 
getting, 
Thy weary limbs upon the turf are thrown, — 
While bright and red the evening sun is setting, « 
And all thy thoughts belong to heaven alone : m 

While happy dreams thy heart employ — 
Would I were with thee — in thy joy ! 

Would I were with thee ! when, no longer feign- 
ing 

The hurried laugh that stiffles back a sigh ! 

Thy young lip pours unheard its sweet com- 
plaining, 

A.nd tears have quenched the light within thine 
eye : 

223 



THE CAPTIVE PIRATE. 223 

When all seems dark and sad below, 
Would I were with thee — in thy woe • 

Would I were with thee! when the day ia 

breaking, 
And when the moon hath lit the lonely sea— 
Or when in crowds some careless note awaking i 
Speaks to thy heart in memory of me. 
In joy or pain, by sea or shore — 
Would I were with thee — evermore ! 



THE CAPTIVE PIRATE. 



The captive pirate sat alone, 
Musing over triumphs gone, 
Gazing on the clear blue sky 
From his dungeon window high. 
Dreamingly he sate, and thought 
Of battles he had seen and fought; 
And fancy o'er him threw her spell. 
He deemed he had not bid farewell 
To the friends who loved him best : 
O'er the white wave's snowy cresi 
Seems he now once more to sail, 
Borne by the triumphant gale : 
Cheerily the light bark bounds. 
In his ears the music sounds 
Of hoarsely mingled waves and voicea, 



224 THE CAPTIVE PIRATE. 

And his inmost soul rejoices ! 

He gives the signal of command, 

He waves — he drops — the hfted hand ! 

It was a sound of clashing steel — 

Why starts he thus? what doth he feel? 

The clanking of his iron chain 

Hath made liim prisoner again ! 

He groans, as memory round him brings 

The shades of half-forgotten things. 

His friends I his I'aithful friends ! — a sigh 

Bursts from that bosom swelling high. 

His bark ! his gallant bark ! — a tear 

Darkens the eye that knew not fear. 

And another meaner name 

Must lead his men to death or fame ! 

And another form must stand 

(Captain of his mourning band) 

On the deck he trod so well, 

While his bark o'er ocean's swell 

Is sailing far, far out at sea, 

Where he never more may be ! 

Oh! t'O be away once more 

From the dark and loathsome shore! 

Oh ! again the sound to hear 

Of his ship's crew's hearty cheer! 

Souls who by his side have stood. 

Careless of their ebbing blood, 

Wiped the death-dew from their brow^ 

And feebly smiled their truth to shov;r : 

Little does the Pirate deem 

Freedom now were but a dream ; 

Little docs the chieftam think 



THE CAPTIVE PIRATE. 225 

That his lost companions drink 
Strugglingly by the salt sea wave, 
Once their home, and now their grave ! 
And the bark from which they part, 
(While his sad and heavy heart 
Yearns to tread her gallant deck,) 
Helpless hes, a heaving wreck ! — 

And httle will they deem, who roam 
liereafter in their floating home, 
While their sunlit sail is spread, 
That it gleams above the dead — 
That the faithless wave rolls on 
Calmly, as they were not gone. 
While its depths warm hearts doth cov«f. 
Whose beatings were untimely over! 
And little will they deem, who sfand 
Safe upon the sea-girt land. 
That to the stranger all it gave 
Was — a prison and a grave 1 
That the ruin'd fortress towers 
Number'd his despairing hours, 
And beneath their careless tread, 
Slfieps — the broken-hearted dead \ 
15 



THE FUTURE, 



I WAS a laughing child, and gailv dwelt 
Where .T^urmuring brooks, and dark blue rivers 

rolTa, 
And shadowy trees outspread lueir silent arms, 
To welcome all the weary to their rest. 
And there an antique castle raised its head, 
Where dwelt a fair and fairy girl : perchance 
Two summers she had seen beyond my years ; 
And all she said or did, was said and done 
With such a light and airy sportiveness, 
That oft 1 envied her, for T was poor. 
And lowly, and to me her fate did seem 
Fraught with a certainty of happiness. 
Years past ; and she was wed against her will, 
To one who sought her for the gold she brought, 
And they did vex and wound her gentle spirit, 
Till madness took the place of misery. 
And oft I heard her low, soft, gentle song. 
Breathing of early times with mournful sound, 
Till I could weep to hear, and thought how 

sad, 
The env'ieA future of her life had prov'd. 

226 



THE FUTURE. 227 

And then I grew a fond and thoughtful girl. 
Loving, and deeming I was lov'd again: 
But lie that won my easy heart, full soon 
Turn'd to another: — she might be more fair. 
But could not love him better. And I wept, 
Day after day, till weary grew my spirit, 
With fancying how happy she must be 
Whom he had chosen — yet she was not so ; 
For he she wedded, loved her for a time, 
And then he changed, even as he did to me. 
Though something later ; and he sought an- 
other 
To please his fancy, far away from home. 
And he was kind: oh, yes! he still was kind. 
It vexed her more ; for though she knew his 

love 
Had faded like the primrose after spring, 
Yet there was nothing which she might com- 
plain, 
Had cause to grieve her ; he was gentle still. 
She would have given all the store she had. 
That he would but be angry for an hour, 
That she might come and sooth his wounded 

spirit, 
And lay her weeping head upon his bosom, 
And say, how freely she forgave her wrongs : 
But still, with calm, cold kindness he pursued 
(Kindness, the mockery of departed love I) 
Hi3 way — and '.'aen she died, the broken hearted; 
And I thanked heaven, who gave me not her 
lot, 



428 THE FUTURE. 

Though I had wish'd it. 

Again, I was a wife, a happy wife ; 

And he I loved was still unchangeable, 

And kind, and true, and loved me from (lis 

soul ; 
But I was childless, and my lonely heart 
Yearned for an image of my heart's beloved, 
A something which should be my 'future' now 
That [ had so much of my life gone by ; 
Somethmg to look to after I should go, 
And all except my memory be past. 
There was a child, a little rosy thing. 
With sunny eyes, and curled and shining hair, 
That used to play among the daisy flowers, 
Looking as innocent and fair as they ; 
And sail its little boat upon the stream, 
Gazing with dark blue eyes in the blue waters, 
And singing in its merriment of heart 
All the bright day : and when the sun was set- 
ting, 
It came unbid to its glad mother's side. 
To lisp with holy look its evening prayer: 
And, kneeling on the green and flowery ground, 
At the sweet cottage door — he fixed his eyes 
For some short moments on her tranquil face. 
As if s^e was his guiding star to God ; 
And then with young, meek, innocent brow up- 
raised. 
Spoke the slow words with lips that longed to 

smile. 
But dared not. Oh ! I loved, that child with all 
A mother's fondest love ; and, as he grew 



THE FCTURE, 229 

More and more beautiful from day to day, 

The half-involuntary sigh I gave 

Spoke but too plain the wish that he were 

mine — 
My child — my own. And in my solitude, 
Often I clasped my haiids and thought of him, 
And looked with mournful and reproachful gaze 
To heaven, which had denied me such a one. 
Years past : the child became a rebel boy ; 
The boy a wild, untamed, and passionate youth ; 
The youth a man — but such a man I so fierce, 
So wild, so headlong, and so haughty too, 
So cruel in avenging any wrongs, 
So merciless when he had half avenged them ! 
At length his hour had come — a deed of blood, 
Oi murder, was upon his guilty soul. 
He stood in that same spot, by his sweet home 
The same bine river flowing by his feet, 
(Whose stream might never wash his guilt 

away ;) 
The same green hills, and mossy sloping banks, 
Where the bright sun was smiling as of yore : 
With pallid cheek and dark and sullen brow. 
The beautiful and lost; you might have deemed 
That Satan, newly banished, stood and gazed. 
On the bright scenery of an infant world. 
For, fallen as he was, his Maker's hand 
Had stamped him beauteous, and he was so 

still. 
And his eyes turned from off his early home 
With something like a shudder; and they light- 
ed 



230 THE FUTURE. 

On his poor broken-hearted mother's grave. 
And (here was something in them of old limes, 
Ere sin had darkened o'er their tranquil blue, 
In that most mourniul look — that made me 

weep ; 
" For 1 had gazed on him with fear and anguish 
Till now. And, 'weep for Aer,' my favourite 

said. 
For she was good — I murdered her — I killed 
Many that harmed me not." And still he spoke 
In a low, hstless voice ; and forms came round 
Who dragged him from us. I remember not 
What followed then. But on another day 
There was a crowd collected, and a cart 
Slowly approached to give to shameful death 
Its burden ; and there was a prayer, and si- 
lence. 
Silence hke that of death. And then a mur- 
mur ! 
And all was over. And I groaned, and turned 
To where his poor old father had been sitting; 
And there he sate, still with his feeble limbs 
And palsied head, and dim and watery eyes, 
Gazing up at the place where was bis son; 
And with a shuddering touch I sought to rouse 
r him. 

But could not for the poor old man was dead. 
And then I flung myself upon the ground, 
And mingled salt tears with the evening dew; 
And thanked my God that he was 7iot my son 
And that I was a childless, lonely wife. 
To-morrow I will tell thee all that now 



THE FUTURE. 231 

Remains to tell — but 1 am old and feeble, 
And cannot speak for tears. 

She rose and went, 
But she returned no more. The morrow came, 
But not to her ; — the tale of life was finished, 
Not by her lips, for she had ceased to breathe. 
But, by this silent warning joined to hers, 
How little we may count upon the future, 
Or reckon what that future may bring forth. 



THE RINGLET. 



Oh ! treasured thus by passion's slave, 

Dear relic of the bygone year ; 
Say, what remains of her who gave ? 

The vain regret — the useless tear. 
The clasping hands — the throbbing brow- 

The murmuring of that shadowy word. 
To which had answered once — oh ! now. 

Why is that light quick step unheard ? 

What in those syllables is found. 
That such a start of woe can claim ? 

A word is but an empty sound, — 
Alas 1 it is — it was — her name ! 

It was — yes, s?ie was once ! as gay. 
As full of hfe, as aught that lives j 



233 THE KINGLET. 

The breath — the hfe — hath passed away 
But not the pang her moniory gives. 

Bright tress thy beauty bringeth now 

A thousand dreams of rapture gone ; 
Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow, 

The low, hght laughter of her tone. 
Gazing on thee, again she stands 

Before me, as in days of old ; 
With all her young head's shining bandSj 

And all its wavy curls of gold. 

Till as I view thee, silken tress, 

I feel within my suffering heart, — 
'Tis all which now my sight can bless, 

All that oi' her will not depart. 
Oh ! thou that wert life's dearest prize, 

That now art but a thought of pain ; 
Why do thy tones — thy laughing eyes 

Rise up to wrmg my soul again ? 

I roam in vain : the sun that beams 

Is still the sun we looked upon ; 
My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams, 

Seeks still for thine to clasp its own. 
My heart resists all time; — all change, 

And finds no other form so dear. 
My memory, wheresoe'er I range, 

Clings to the spot where thou wert near. 
Change 1 thou wert all life's scenery : 

To me, the billowy, bounding wave — 
The wide green earth — the far blue sky, 

Form but the landscape of thy grave ! 



THE heart's wreck. S33 

Oh ! bitter is theii: boon of life 

Who cannot hope — who may not die— 
I Unger in a world of strife, 

Whilst thou art in the happy sky! 
I envy thee the peace thou hast, 

And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow, 
That He who made thee all thou wast, 

Would make me all — that thou art now I 



THE HEART'S WRECK 



The lulling winds may still the sea, 

All beautiful in its repose ; 
And with a soft tranquility 

The rippling water ebbs and flows. 

But when the tempests wildly blow, 
Its bosom heaves with many a wreck 

Which, till that moment, slept below. 
Nor dimmed its surface with a speck, 

So 7 can talk, and laugh, and seem 
All that the happiest souls could be; 

Lulled for a moment, by some dream, 
Soft as the sunset on the sea. 

But when a word, a tone, reminds 
My bosom of it? perished love, 



234 THE LOST ONE. 

Oh! fearful are the stormy winds 

Which dash the heart's wild wrecks above ! 

One after one tliey rise again, 
And o'er dark memory's ocean steal. 

Floating along, through years of pain~ 
Such as the heart-struck only feel ! 



THE LOST ONE. 



Come to the grave — the silent grave I and dream 

Of a light, happy voice — so full of joy, 

That those who heard her laugh, would laugh 

again. 
Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit; 
And pause in their own converse, to look round, 
Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone. 
Come to the grave — the lone dark grave! and 

dream 
Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul. 
Eyes which, with one bright flash from their 

dark lids, 
Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of 

others ; 
Or, with a full entire tenderness. 
The pure expression of all-perfect love, 
(Of woman's love, which is for you alone, 
While vour's is for yourself) — gave in that look 



THE LOST ONE. 235 

The promise df a life of meek affection. 

Come to the grave — the mouldering grave I and 

dream 
Of a fair form that glided over earth 
One of its happiest creatures : — to her cheek 
The lightest word might bring the blushing 

blood 
In pure carnation ; — down her graceful neck, 
The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly, 
Untortured by the cunning hand of art : 
And on her brow, bright purity and joy, 
Twin sisters, sate, — as on a holy throne. 
Come yet unto the grave — the still, damp grave ! 
And dream of a young heart that beat with life, 
And ail life's best affections; of a heart 
Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin — 
Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love : 
And, having dreamed of such a lovely being — 
So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek — 
Having thus conjured up a form of love 
In thine own pausing and regretful mind ; 
A vision will be present to thy soul, 
A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one 
Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost ! 



MY NATIVE LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER. 



Where is the minstrers native land ? 
Where the flames of light and feeUng glow ; 
Where the flowers are wreathed for beauty's 

brow ; 
Where the bounding heart swells strong and 

high, 
With holy hopes which may not die — 
There is my native land ! 

What is that bright land's music name? 
Ere it bent its neck to a foreign yoke, 
It was called the land of ihe broad strong oak — 
The land of the free — the German land — 
But her sons lie slain by the stranger's hand. 
And she weeps sad tears of shame. 

Why does the minstrel's country weep ? 
That the hurricane's rage hath bowed the pride 
Of those who should stem the rising tide ; 
That her princes quail — and that none will hear 
Her holy words of might and fear — 

Therefore my land must weep ! 

236 



MY NATIVE LAND. 237 

To whom does the niinstrel's country call ? 
It calls to the silent heavenly powers, 
With despair, as the thunder darkly lowers. 
For its freedom — for those who should break its 

chain — 
For the hand that never strikes in vain — 

To these doth my country call ! 

For what does the minstrel's country sigh? 
That the bloodhound may hunt beyond the 

bound 
Of the soil which brave hearts make holy 

ground ; 
That the serf may cease ; and our sons be free. 
Or those who have borne them, cease to be — 
For this does my country sigh ! 

And still doth the minstrel's country hope ? 
Her hope is firm, for her cause is good — 
I'hat her brave will rise, and her true in blood; 
And that Gcd the avenger, our fathers' God, 
Will mark the tears that bedew her sod — 
Such is my country's hope ! 



DREAMS. 



Surely I heard a voice — surely my name 
Was breathed in tones familiar to my heart ! 
I listened — and the low wind stealing came, 
In darkness and in silence to depart. 

Surely I saw a form, a proud bright form, 
Standing beside my couch ! I raised mine eyes : 
'Twas but a dim cloud, herald of a storm, 
That floated through the grey and twilight skies. 

Surely the brightness of the summer hour 
Hath suddenly burst upon the circling gloom! 
I dream ; 'twas but the perfume of a flower, 
Which the breeze wafted through the silent 
room. 

Surely a hand clasped mine with greetings fond ! 
A name is murmured by my lips with pain ; 
Woe for that sound — woe for love's broken 

bond. 
I start — I wake — I am alone again ! 



238 



RECOLLECTIONS. 



Do you remember all the sunny places, 
Where in bright days, long past, we played to- 
gether ? 
Do you remember all the old home faces 
That gathered round the hearth in wintry 

weather ? 
Do you remember all the happy meetings. 
In Summer evenings round the open door — 
Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender 

greetings, 
And'ciasping hands whose pulses beat no more I 
Do you remember them ? 

Do you remember all the merry laughter ; 
The voices round the swing in our old garden : 
The dog that, when we ran, still followed after; 
The teazing frolic sure of speedy pardon : 
We were but children then, young happy crea 

tures. 
And hardly knew how much we had to lose — 
But now the dreamlike memory of those features 
Comes back, and bids my darkened spirit muse- 
Do you remember them ? 
239 



240 RECOLLECTIONS. 

Do you remember when we first departed 
From all the old companions who were round us, 
How very soon again we grew light-hearted, 
And talked with smiles of all the hnks which 

bound us ? 
And after, when our footsteps were returning, 
With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain ; 
How our young hearts kept boiling up, and 

burning, 
To think how soon we'd be at home again. 

Do you remember this ? 

Do you remember how the dreams of glory 
Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure ; 
How we thought less of being famed in story, 
And more of those to whom our fame gave 

pleasure. 
Do you remember in far countries, weeping, 
When a light breeze, a flower, hath brougljt to 

mind. 
Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were 

sleeping. 
And made us yearn for those we left behind ? 

Do you remember this? 

Do you remember when no sound 'woke gladly, 
But desolate echoes through our home were 

ringing. 
How for a while we talked — then paused full 

sadly. 
Because our voices bifer thoughts were bring 

ing? 



THE GREEK GIRL's LAME>JT FOR HER LOVER. 241 

Ah me ! those days — those days ! my friend, 

my brother, 
Sit down and let us talk of all our woe, 
For we have nothing left but one another ; — 
Yet where they went, old playmate, we shall 50 — 
Let us remember this. 



THE GREEK GIRL'S LAMENT FOR 
HER LOVER. 



liviRA ! thy form is vanished 
From the proud and patriot band; 
Imra ! thy voiee is silent, 
'Mongst the voices of the land. 
And bravely hast thou fallen! 
In joy didst ihou depart ; 
Their chains shall never bind thei?, 
Young hero of my heart ! 

But with thee the dream is over 
That bound my soul so long ; 
And the woids of fame and glory 
Have vanished from my song : 
My heart which bounded proudljf 
Is as sad as sad can be ; 
I thought it beat for freedom, 
But I feel it beat— /or Ih&e. 
16 



242 JMARY. 

I thought the victory's triumph 
Would liave made my soul rcjOiCe, 
But that was when I listened 
To the music of thy voice. 
'l"he dreams of fame and conquest, 
Of my country being free ; 
What love were they to Zoo, 
But most blessed dreams of thee ? 

It is past — thy voice may never 

Speak, of triumph, or of love ; 

And the bright hope that was burning 

Hath flown with thee above. 

This earth contains no dwelling, 

No land of rest for me ; 

When Hellas was my country, 

1 dwelt in it with tJiee ! 



MARY. 



Yes, we were happy once, and care 

My jocund heart could ne'er surprise { 
My treasures were, her golden hair, 

Her ruby lips, her brilliant eyes. 
My treasures were — alas 1 depart 

Ye visions of what used to be ! 
Cursed be the heart — the cruel heart-^ 

That stole my Mary's love from me* 



XtlE PILGRIM OF LIFE. 243 

Dark are my joyless days — and thou — 

Dost thou too dream, and dreaming weep? 
Or, careless of thy broken vow, 

Unholy revels dost thou keep? 
No, Mary, no, — we loved too well, 

Such deep oblivion cannot be; 
Cursed be the lips, where guile could dwell, 

To lure thy love away from me ! 

It cannot be ! — ah ! haply, while 

With wild reproach I greet thy name, 

Thy ruby lip hath ceased to smile — 
Thy happy head is bowed with shame ! 

Haply, with haggard want opprest, 
Thou weepest where no eye may see ; 
Cursed be the spoiler's cruel breast — 
But, oh ! my Mary ! — heaven shield thee! 



THE PILGRIM OF LIFE. 



PiLGRLM, who toilest up life's weary steep, 
To reach the summit still with pleasure crown- 
ed ; 
Born but to sigh and smile ; to sin and weep, 

Dost mark the busy multitudes around ? 
Dost mourn, with those who tread with fainting 
feet, 
And blighted worn-out heart, the self same 
road ? 



244 IHE PILGRIM OF LIFE. 

Dost laugh with those who think their travel 
sweei, 

And deem existence no unwelcome load ? — 
Ah, no! unconscious of their }oy or woe, 

Quick hurrying onward still, or gazing back, 
With feeble lustre round their planet glow 

A few beloved, connected with thy track ; 
Dear hnks of life, for whom to toil is bliss ; 

Circlet of stars in young hope's diadem ; 
Gay lightsome hearts who know no joy but 
this — 

To be together is enough for them. 
Thou pausest on thy way — one light is set — 
No power of love relumes the torch of life ; 
Whate'er it was, 'tis lost — and vain regret 
Pursues the rosy babe, or faithful wife. 
'Tis past — 'tis gone — the brightness of those eyes 
Can cheer no more thy melancholy home : 
But grief may not endure — new joys arise ; 
The past is not — but thou hast years to come ! 
New joys arise — eager thou presseston, 
Hope's brilliant mockery deceiving still. 
And now thou weepest o'er delusions gone, 
Now hail'st with transport days devoid of ill. 
Yet ever as thou goest on thy way. 
However bright may be tiie present hour, 
Clings to thy mind with brighest, purest ray, 
The joy thou could'st not hold, the faded flow- 
er — 
Still dearest seems the past ; and as each light, 
Extinguished, leaves thee lone, through mem 
ory's tears 



TO A BLIND CHILD. 245 

More aim the fixture rises to thy sight, 
More bright the visions of thine early years. 
Pilgrim of Life ! why slackenest thou thy speed ! 
Why is that brow of eager hope o'ercast ? 
A pause — a struggle — ana the hour decreed 
Mingles for aye the vresent wi^h the past ! 



TO A BLIND CHILD. 



Thou wreck of human hopes ! whose darkened 

eyes 
No more behold the blue and sunny skies. 
Doomed in thy joyous childhood's early day 
Blindly to grope along thy cheerless way ; 
Ere yet the bitter tear of sorrow streaming 
Had clouded those sweet orbs, or dimmed their 

beaming, 
It was foretold that fate — and now, alas ! 
The awful prophecy hath come to pass. 
Oh, thou unhappy ! in thy infant hours 
How glad thy parents watch'd thy dawning 

powers ; 
O'er thy young innocence enraptured hung. 
Praised the soft murm'ring accents of thy 

tongue, 
And guessed thy meaning, not from worda 

alone, 



246 TO A BLirfn child. 

But from the speaking orbs that brightly shone—- 
That glorious i'eature of the human face, 
That silent language nothing can replace. 
They watched, as slowly stealing, ray by ray, 
That gentle light was fading fast away ; 
And wept, in sad and hopeless agony, 
O'er the dimmed glance of thy half-conscioua 

eye. 
At length it ceased, and darkness then dwelt 

there, 
Unbroken — cheerless — deep as their despair ! 
Mournful, expressionless, they turn to those 
Who watched with rapture once their lids un- 
close ; 
And from those darkened orbs is slowly steal- 
ing 
The only trace now left of earthly feeling, 
A tear — a silent tear, condemned to flow 
For vanished joys or years of future woe. 
Oh ! far more moving is that look to me 
Than all the supplicating agony — 
The pearly drops that fall from Beauty's eyes, 
Her bursting sobs, her low and melting sighs. 
Mourners there be of whom we soothe the pain. 
And, where we pity, pity not in vain ; 
But here there is a look which seems to say. 
Thou canst do nought for me — we turn away 
Sick at the heart. O thou lamented one ! 
Perchance long years are thine to spend alone ! 
No gladsome child shall frolic oy thy side, 
Thy feeble age some stranger hand shall guide 
Or faiihful dog, wiih dumb, imploring glance, 



O A BLIx\D CHILD £47 

Collect the half-reluctant alms : — perchance, 
Wandering and weary, thou shah lay ihy head 
In the poor shelter of some ruined shed ; 
Or rest thy worn-out form beneath a tree, 
While darken o'er thee skies thou canst not 

see — 
While dreadful night the trembling world en- 
shrouds, 
And the hoarse thunder struggles through the 

clouds, 
The7i, while the bitter blast is howling round. 
Defenceless thou shalt stretch thee on the 

ground ; 
And cowering by his helpless master's side, 
Like thee forsaken, and all help denied. 
The sole companion of thy cheerless track 
Shake the cold rain-drops from his shivering 

back. 
And shrinking, shuddering, of the storm afraid. 
Seek aid from thee — ihou canst not give him 

aid. 
In such an hour, perchance, thou'lt breathe thy 

last. 
Thy dirge the moaning of the wintry blast ! 
Shield, shield his houseless head, all-pitying 

Heaven ! 
When far in eddying rounds the snow is driven! 
Whom ma?!, neglects, stretch tJwu thy hand to 

save. 
Protect the transient life thy mercy gave ; 



243 MARFvTAGE ANX) LOVEo 

Let him not die, nor leave ofie friend behind 
To echo those sad words — " Pity the poor old 
blind!" 



MARRIAGE AND LOVE. 



The poorest peasant of the meanest soil, 

The child of poverty, and heir to toil, 

Early, from radiant love's impartial light, 

Steals one small spark to cheer his vi^orld of ni£;ht : 

Dear spark! which oft, through winter's chilling woes. 

Is all the warmth his little cottage knows I 

Sheridan. 



Laura was lightsome, gay, and free from guile ; 
Bright were her eyes, and beautiful her smile ; 
Women found fault, but men were heard to 

swear 
That she was lovely, though she was not fair. 
Her parents were not rich, nor very poor ; 
She had enough, nor breathed a wish for more ; 
Blithe were the mornings, gay the evenings 

spent, 
And youthful eyes smiled back a calm content. 
Yes, she was happy, and she was at rest, 
Till the world filled with cares her little breast 



MARKIAGE AND LOVE. 249 

Taught her to fear all dowagers and mothers, 
Smile on gay lords, and cut their younger broth- 
ers. 
This last rule cost her now and then a sigh — 
'Tis wrong to say so — but I know not why 
Men, when they're handsome, are not liked the 

less, 
And may be pleasant, though they're penny- 
less — 
But Laura's mother never would agree 
That needy men could pleasant partners be ; 
To gain her favour, vain was all exertion, 
A younger brother was her great aversion. 
The mother hoped and prayed — her prayer was 

granted, 
A lordling came — the very thing she wanted — 
"Oh I what a match, my dear!" — and Laura 

sighed 
And hung her head, and timidly replied, 
"She did not love," — "What put it in your head 
That it was needful ? — you are asked to wed — 
Romantic love is all a childish folly. 
So marry, dear ! and don't look melancholy; 
Besides, you cannot always live at home— - 
Another year your sister's turn will come — 
And you will be so rich I — where shall we go ? 
Let us begin to think of your trousseau .'" 
And Laura laughed, and looked up at her 

mother : 
She loved not him — but then, she loved no 

other ! 
Days passed av/ay — she spent the last few hours 



) 



250 MARRIAGE AND LOVE. 

In pinning on lace veils and orange flowers; 
^Viih beating heart the maid to church was ear 

ried, 
And Laura blushed, and trembled, and — was 

married ! 
Quickly the happy couple sped away, 
And friends' congratulations end the day, 
"Sweet girl ! how well she look'd I dress'd with 

such care ! 
How the rich veil became her face and hair ! 
A lovely woman, certainly," — and Laura 
Left friends behind, with all the world before 

her! 
Dwelt for a while (remembrance sad and 

strong !) 
In Laura's mind her little brother's song — 
The quick light step — the blue and sparkling 

eye. 
The bright perfection of his infancy — 
Her sister's gentle smile — all these arise, 
Whilst damp'd her wedding veil her weeping 

eyes ; 
But soon consoled, again the maid grew gay, 
Swift in amusement flew each busy day ; 
The country seat was exquisite ; she found 
New beauties every time she looked around ; 
The lawn so green, so smooth, so sunny too, 
The flowers so bright, the heavens of suck a 

blue ! — 
"Oh ! this was happiness !"— It migld have been 
Had there been no reverse of this lair scene. 



MARRIAGE AND LOVE. 25i 

But Laura's lord was not what lords should 

be;— 
Cold, harsh, unfeeling, proud, alas! was he — 
And yet a very fool — had he been stern, 
She would have tried the tyrant's will to learn— 
Had he been passionate, she still had loved — 
Or jealous, time her virtue would have proved ; 
But, as he was, without a soul or mind, 
Too savage e'en to be in seeming kind — 
The slave of petty feelings, every hour 
He changed his will, to show he liad the power ; 
And Laura wept, that she had linked her fate 
With one too cold to love, too mean to hate. 
A mother's hopes were left her, and she said, 
'My child, at least, will love me !' days, months, 

sped — 
She watched the graVe, and wept the early dead ! 
The scene was changed : nought pleases Laura 

now, 
Nor sunny sky, nor richly sweeping bough ; 
At the long window, opening to the ground, 
She sits, while evening spreads its shadows 

round ; 
Or through the glowing noon, for weary hours, 
Watches the bees that flutter o'er the flowers ; 
Or when the moon is up, and stars are out 
She leaves her lonely room to roam about , 
And while the night breeze murmurs o'er her 

head. 
Upbraids the living, or bewails the dead ! 
Both are alike insensible — her mate. 
Weary of home, hath left her to her fate ; 



i 



253 MARRIAGE AND LOVE. 

Nor recks he now that Laura weeps or sighs, 

So he enjoy what Heaven to her denies. 

But there was one who thought eyes blue and 

deep, 
Like Laura's were too beautiful to weep ; 
Perchance he told her so — perchance she guessed 
He deemed her loveher than his words express- 
ed— 
A cousin he of Laura's moody lord, 
But how unlike him ! — every gentle word 
Andgentlier tone — the song, the walk, the book, 
The graceful step, the bright expressive look, 
Awoke in her a deep and sad regret 
Of what he migld have been — ah 1 might be 

yet! 
And yet she struggled with her yielding heart — 
'Twas sin to meet — but oh ! 'twas grief to part ! 
He never said he loved her — could she cry, 
" Francis ! you love me ; Francis ; you must 

fly?''" 

Perchance he loved her not — Alas ! too well 
Each knew the passion neither dared to tell. 
Mute would they stand, upon some summer eve, 
With melancholy rapture, prone to grieve ; 
Then, trembling, gaze upon each other's eyes, 
The heaven of each, more worshipped than tha 

skies. 
Her lord returned — he saw her flushing cheek, 
Her vain attempt to smile, or freely speak ; 
"Thou hast been false ! Pll know the truth," 
He cried in fury — "Who's the favour'd youth f 



MARPwIAGE AND LOVE. 253 

Wretch ! I will tear the minion limb from 
limb !" 

Bat Laura's heart was full, her eye was dim : 

She answered not, with faint, slow step with- 
drew, 

Of Francis thought — and then to Francis flew. 

"Thou knowest — God knows!" — no more the 
maiden said, 

But on his shoulders dropped her sobbing head ; 

And Francis, as his arm was cast around her 

(The first wild moment that fond arm e'er 
bound her), 

Murmured, — " My love ! my Hfe I what, if we 
flee? 

The world ! — the world ! — what is that world to 
me ? 

Thou art my world — I, thine — " and her reply 

Was but a stifled sound — half sob, half sigh. 
***** 

Oh ! it is wretched, when the loss of fame 
Haih left us but the shadow of a name — 
When all forget us, all refuse to own, 
And Ufe is journey'd on, alone — aJo?ie ! 
Tis bitter then to see the flame of love, 
The only link for which we still would prove 
Life's withering joys, expiring spark by spark. 
Till all extinct, and we left lone and dark ! 
Thus Francis' love consumed itself away, 
While mournful Laura drooped from day to 

day— 
Her graceful Francis, all his passion o'er, 
Grieved she had fallen to rise aga'^no more — 



254 JIARRIA&E AND LOVE. 

Grieved that harsh scorn should hail her blighted 

name, 
Grieved that she had felt and saw he felt her 

shame. 
At length he shunned her, and poor Laura 

sighed. 
Murmured repentant prayers to Heaven — and 

died. 
And then no more her Francis blamed the wife 
Who left her mate to lead a guilty life ; 
No more he feels, what fond proud hearts must 

feel, 
Who blush for those whose wounds they cannot 

heal, 
But turned with fond regret, and useless call, 

To her who with him nad abandoned all ! 

* * « « * 

***** 
And Francis, loved again, is happy now; 

For he hath chosen him a gentle bride. 
With gay light heart, and pure and placid brow 

Unused to grief, and impotent to chide. 
But hapless Laura, where is she the while ? 

The light gay form is mouldering in the grave ; 
The full and rosy lip hath ceased to smile, 

And all is gone which bounteous Nature gave; 

Pulseless the heart, and spiritless the eye, 
Whence flashed a soul for better feelings 
framed ; 
The eloquent tongue with dust is choked and dry: 
Shesmned — she wept— and is no more asham- 
ed. 



THE WANDERER LOOKING INTO 
OTHER HOMES. 



A LOxNE, wayfaring wretch I saw, who stood 

Wearily pausing by the wicket gate ; 
And from his eyes there streamed a bitter flood 

Contrasting his with many a happier fate. 
Bleak hovv'led the wind, the sleety shower fel' 
fast 

On his bare head, and scanty-covered breast; 
As through the village with quick step I past, 

To find sweet shelter in my home of rest. 

•' Oh! that I too could call a home my own I" 
Said the lone wanderer, as he wistful gazed 
Through the clear lattice, on the hearth's wide 
stone, 
Where cheerily the jocund fire blazed. 
" Oh 1 that I too, in such a cot might dwell ! 
Where the bright homefire blazeih clear and 
high : 
Where joy alone my grateful heart might swell, 
And children's children bless me when J 
die!" 



256 IflE WANDERER. 

Little he deemed what bitterness was there, 

Who murmured thus his aspirations vain,— 
Little he deemed that one as fond as fair 

Lay faintly sighing on a bed of pain : 
And by her side, a restless vigil keeping, 

One who had deeply wronged that gentle 
heart — 
Knelt with clasped hands; now praying, and 
now weeping ; 

Dreading, each hour, to see the soul depart. 

They were two sisters jealous love had twained ; 

And one had slandered-her who faded lay, 
Because she deemed her slighted love dis- 
dained : 

And he they both had loved was far away : 
And from that hour, the younger drooped and 
pined, 

Like a pale snowdrop bowing down her head ; 
Joyless of life — to slow disease resigned — 

The heart within her was already dead. 

Here, for her sake, they woo the mountain 
gale. 
If, haply, change may yet prevent her fate. 
But he, the wanderer, knew not of this tale, 
And humbly sues admittance at their gate. 
He enters, what hath met his eager eyes ? 
Pale as the white- fringed drapery spread be 
neath. 
His early loved, his sorely slandered, lies, 



THE WANDEKER. 267 

Heaving with pain her faint and quickened 
breath. 



O'er her soft arnn her long, dark, glossy hair 

Floats in unbraided beauty, — and her cheek,— 
Ah, me ! the deeply-crimsoned tinge is there, 

That of sharp woe and early death doth 
speak. 
How beautiful, beneath her drooping eye. 

The glowing hectic of that cheek appears, 
Where the long lashes like soft shadows lie, 

Seeking in vain to prison back her tears. 

She gazes — shrieks — 'tis he! at length Uis he. 

Whom dreams and waking thoughts have 
brought in vain ! 
And must she die, e'er yet from sorrow free, 

Her head hath rested on his heart again ? 
A few slow, bitter words of wild appeal — 

Of earnest explanation faintly given — 
A pressure, which his hand can scarcely feel. 

And her freed soul is on its way to heaven . 

So, wanderers in the world may pausing gaze 
Upon some radiant form with smiles of light, 

And seeing but the outward beam that plays, 
Envy their joys — and deem that all is bright. 

The homes of other hearts ! oh ! yet beware, 

Ye, who with friendly guise would enter in. 
17 



I 



2SH music's power. 

Lest all be false, — and ye be doomed to share 
Their guilt or woe — their sadnees or theif 
sin' 



MUSIC'S POWER. 



Have you never heard, in music's sound, 

Some chords which o'er your heart 
First fling a moment's magic round, 

Then silently depart ? 
But with the echo on the air, 
Roused by that simple lay, 
It leaves a world of feeling there 
We cannot chase away. 
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them 

come — 
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's re 
membered home. 

When sitting in your silent home 

You gaze around and weep. 
Or call to those who cannot come 

Nor wake from dreamless sleep; 
Those chords, as oft as you bemoan 

" The distant and the dead," 
Bring dimly back the fancied tone 



THE FAITHLESS KNIGHT. 259 

Of some sweet voice that's fled ! 

Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them 
come — 

Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's re- 
membered home. 

And when, amid the festal throng, 

You are, or would be gay — 
And seek to while, with dance and song, 

Your sadder thoughts away ; 
They strike those chords and smiles depart, 

As, rushing o'er your soul, 
The untold feelings of the heart 
Awake, and spurn control ! 
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them 

come — 
youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's re- 
membered home. 



THE FAITHLESS KNIGHT. 



The lady she sate in her bower alone, 
And she gaz'd from the lattice window high, 
Where a white steed's hoofs were ringing on, 
With a beating heart, and a smother'd sigh. 
Why doih she gaze thro' the sunset rays — 
Why doth she watch that white steed's track- 
While a quivering smile on her red lip plays? 
'Tis her own dear knight — will he not look back/ 



260 FAREWELL. 

The steed flew fast — and the nder past-" 
Nor paus'd he to gaze at the lady's bower ,' 
The smile from her hp is gone at last — 
There are tears on her cheek — Uke the dew on 

a flower ! 
And " plague on these foolish tears," she said, 
" Which have dimm'd the view of my young 

love's track ; 
For oh ! I am sure, while I bent my head, 
It was then — it was then that my knight look'd 

back." 

On flew that steed with an arrow's speed ; 

He is gone — and the green boughs wave between: 

And she sighs, as the sweet breeze sighs through 

a reed, 
As she watches the spot where he last has been. 
Oh I many a sun shall rise and set, 
And many an hour may she watch in vain 
And many a tear shall that soft cheek wet, 
Ere that steed and its rider return again ! 



FAREWELL. 



Farewell! in tearlesp agony I part ! 
Beloved, the pang can cost thee little now; 
The thought of triumph dwells within thy heart 
The smile of triumph plays around thy brow. 



I WAS NOT FALSE TO THEE. 2(il 

But oh ! when that is gone, when Time hath 

dimmed, 
(If Time must dim) the glories of thine eye ; 
When the full cup of joy, which now is brimmed. 
Drained by thine eager spuit, shaW be dry ; 

When snows have mingled in the locks of youth, 
And passion's power no more thy heart can 

warm ; 
Where the cold world shines forth in sorrow's 

truth, 
And life itself is but a broken charm ; 

When the bright sun which gilds thy day \s set, 
A star's faint lustre may resume its reign ; 
I am contented that thou should'st forget — 
All love thee now, but I will love thee the7i. 



I WAS NOT FALSE TO THEE. 



I WAS not false to thee, and yet 

My cheek alone looked pale ; 

My weary eye was dim and wet, 

My strength began to fail. 

Thou wert the same ; thy looks were gay, 

Thy step was light and free ; 

And yet, with truth, my bsart can say, 

/ was not false to thee ! 



2G2 OH ! LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER RILL. 

I was not false to thee, yet now 

Thou hast a cheerful eye, 

With flushing cheek and drooping brow 

/ wander mournfully. 

I hate to meet the gaze of men, 

I weep where none can see ; 

Why do / only suffer, when 

/ was not false to thee ? 

I was not false to thee ; yet oh I 

How scornfully they smile, 

Who see me droop, who guess my woe, 

Yet court thee all the while. 

'Tis strange ! but when long years are pMt, 

Thou wilt remember me ; 

Whilst I can feel until the last, 

I was not false to thee ! 



OH! LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER 
RILL. 



Ok! life is like the summer rill, where weary 

daylight dies ; 
We long for morn to rise again, and blush alorig 

the skies. 
For dull and dark that stream appears, whose 

waf "irs, in the day. 



oh! life is like the summer rill. 263 

All glad in conscious sunniness, went dancing 

on their way. 
But when the glorious sun hath ' woke and 

looked upon the earth, 
And over hill and dale there float the sounds of 

human mirth ; *- 
We sigh to see dav hath not brought its perfect 

light to all, 
For with the sunshine on those waves, the si- 
lent shadows fall. 
Oh ! like that changeful summer rill, our years 

go gliding by, 
Now bright with joy, now dark with tears, be- 
fore youth's eager eye. 
And thus we vainly pant for all the rich and 

golden glow. 
Which young hope, Uke an early sun, upon its 

course can throw. 
Soon o'er our half-illumined hearts the stealing 

shadows come, 
And every thought that woke in light receives 

its share of gloom. 
A.nd we w6ep while joys and sorrows both are 

fading from our view, 
To find, wherever sunbeams fall, the shadow 

Cometh too '. 



THE NAME, 



" What's in a name?" — Shakbpeabe." 



Thy name was once the magic spell, by whicn 

my thoughts were bound, 
A^nd burning dreams of light and love were 

wakened by that sound : 
IVTy heart beat quick when stranger tongues, 

with idle praise or blame, 
Awoke its deepest thrill of life, to tremble at 

that name. 

Long years — long years have passed away, ind 

altered is thy brow ; 
And we who met so gladly once, must meet as 

strangers now : 
The friends of yore come round me still, but 

talk no more of thee ; 
'Tis idle ev'n to wish it now — for what art thou 

to m^ ? 

264 



THE ONE YOU LOVED THE BEST. 265 

yet still thy name, thy blessed name, my lonely 
bosom fills, 

Like an echo that hath lost itself among the dis- 
tant hills, 

Which still, with melancholy note, keeps faintly 
lingering on, 

When the jocund sound that woke it first is 
gone — f>r ever gone. 



THE ONE YOU LOVED THE BEST. 



Oh ! love — love well, but only once! for never 
shall the dream 

Of youthful hope return again on life's dark roll- 
ing stream — 

No love can match the early one which young 
affection nurs'd ; 

Oh, no — the one you loved the best, is she you 
loved the first. 

Once lost — that gladsome vision past — a fairer 

form may rise, 
And eyes whose lustre mocks the light of starry 

southern skies. 
But vainly seek you to enshrine the charmer m 

your breast, 
For still the one you loved the first, is she you 

loved the best. 



266 THE PURPLE AND WIII'E CARNATION. 

Again — 'tis gone — 'tis past away — those gentle 
tones and looks 

Have vanished like the feathery snow in sum- 
mer's running brooks ; 

With weary pinions wandering love forsakes the 
heart, his nest, 

And fain would rest again with her whom first 
you loved, and best. 

Perchance some faithful one is found, when love's 

romance is o'er, 
With her you safe through storms may gUde, to 

reach life's farthest shore ; 
But all too cold and real now you deem your 

home of rest, 
A ^d you sigh for her vou loved the first — for her 

you loved the best. 



THE PURPLE AND WHITE 
CARNATION. 



A FABLE. 



T'wAs a bright May morn, and each opemng 

Lay sunning itself in Flora's bower ; 

Young Love, who was fluttering round, espied 

The blosaoms so gay in their painted pride ; 



THE PURPLE AND WHITE CAKNATION. 267 

And he gazed on the point of a feathered dart, 
For mischief had filled the boy-god's heart; 
And laughed as his bowstring of silk he drew, 
And away that arrow at random flew s 
Onward it sped like a ray of light, 
And fell on a flower of virgia white, 
Which glanced all snowy and pure at the sun, 
And wept when his glorious course was run : 
Two little drops on its pale leaves lay 
Pure as pearls, but with diamond ray, 
(Like the tear on Beauty's lid of snow. 
Which waits but Compassion to bid it flow ;) 
It rested, that dart ; and its pointed tip 
Sank deep where the bees were wont to sip ; 
And the sickening flower gazed with grief 
On the purple stains whieh dimmed each leaf, 
And the crystal drops on its leaves that stood 
Blushed with sorrow and shame till they turned 
to blood. 

t chanced that Flora, wandering by, 
Beheld her flow'ret droop and die ; 
And Love laughed in scorn at the flower-queen's 

woe, 
As she vainly shook its leaves of snow. 
Fled from her lip was the smile of light : — 
" Oh ! who hath worked thee this fell despi'^^e ! 
Thou who did'st harm, alas I to none. 
But joyed'st all day in tlie beams of the sun !" 
" 'Twas Love !" said the flower, and a scented 

sigh 
Loaded the gale that murmured*by. 



268 THE PURPLE AND WHITE CARA'ATIOJT. 

'Twas Love! and the dew-drops that blushed 

on the wound 
Sank slow and sad to the pitying ground. 

" 'Twas Love !" said Flora : " accursed be the 

power 
That could blight the bloom of so fair a flower, 
Wiih whispers and smiles he wins Beauty's ears 
But he leaves her nothmg save grief and tears. 
Ye gods! shall he bend with such tyranny still 
'I'he weak and the strong to his wanton will ? 
No ! the hearts that he joins may rude discord 

sever ; 
Accursed be his power for ever and ever." 
She spoke, and wept ; and the echo again 
Repeated the curse, but all in vain — 
The tyrant laughed as he fluttered away, 
Spreading his rainbow wings to the day, 
And settling at random his feathered darts 
To spoil sweet flowers, or break fond hearts. 

He fled — and the queen o'er her flower in vain 
Poured the evening dew and the April rain, 
The purple spots on her heart still were, 
And she said, as she wept her fruitless care, 
" The blight and the stain may be washed 

away, 
But what Love hath ruined must sink in decay." 



THE BRIDE. 269 

O'er that sad lost flower she wails and grieves ; 
And the drops that by mortals as dew are seen 
Are the tears of tiie morning flower-queen. 
And when men are gazing with fond delight 
On its varied leaves, and call them bright, 
And praise the velvet tints, and say 
There never was flower more pure and gay 
That flow'ret says, as it droops its head, 
" Alas ! for the day when by love I bled ; 
When my feathery flowers were pure and white 
And my leaves had no earthly stain or blight, 
When no chilling blasts around me blew, 
And in Flora's garden of light I grew. 
Oh I the blight and the stain may be washed 

away, 
But what Love hath ruined must sink in decay." 



THE BRIDE. 



She is standing by her loved one's side, 
A young and a fair and a gentle bride, 
But mournfulness hath crossed her face 
Like shadows in a sunny place, 
And wistfully her eye doth strain 
Across the blue and distant main. 
My home ! my home ! — 1 would I were 
Again in joyous gladness there .' 



270 THE BRIDE. 

My home ! my home ! — I would I heard 
U"he singing voice, like some small bird, 
Oi him, our mother's youngest child, 
With light soft step, and features mild.— 
1 would I saw that dear one now, 
With the proud eye and noble brow, 
Whose very errors were more loved 
Than all our reason most approved. 
And she, my fairy sister, she. 
Who was the soul of childish glee ; 
Who loved me so — oh, let me hear 
Once more those tones familiar, dear, 
Which haunt my rest ; and I will smile 
Even as I used to do erewhile, 
I know that some have fall'n asleep — 
I know that some have learnt to weep — 
But my heart never feels the same 
As when those light steps round me came 
And sadness weighs my heavy eye 
Beneath this cheerless stranger sky : 
Tho' fewer now might round me come — 
It is my home — my own old home ! 

She is back again in her sunny home, 
And thick and fast the beatings come 
Of that young heart, as round she sees 
The same sweet flowers, the same old trees 
But they, the living flowers she loved, 
Are they the same ? are they unmoved? — 
No — time which withers leaf and stem 
Hath thrown his withering change o'er them. 
Where there was mirth, is silence now — 



THE BRIDE. 271 

Where there was joy, a darkened brow— 

The bounding step hath given place 

To the slow stealing mournful pace ; 

The proud bright eye is now less proud, 

By time and thought, and sickness bowed, 

And the light singing voice no more 

Its joyful carols echoes o'er, 

But whispers ; fearful some gay tone 

May wake the thought of pleasures gone. 

It is her home — but all in vain 

Some lingering things unchanged remain t 

The present wakes no smile — the past 

Hath tears to bid its memory last. 

She knew that some were gone — but oh ! 

She knew not — youth can never know 

How furrowed o'er with silent thought 

Are brows which grief and time have taught* 

The murmuring of some shadowy word. 

Which was a name — which now, unheard, 

May wander thro' the clear cold sky, 

Or wake the echo for reply : 

The lingering pause in some bright spot 

To dream of those who now are not: 

The gaze that vainly seeks to trace 

Lost feelings beaming on a face 

Where time and sorrow, guiit and care, 

Have past and left there withering there :-■ 

These are her joys ; and she doth roam 

Around her dear but desert home ; 

PeopUng the vacant seats, till tears arise, 

And blot the dim sweet vision from her eyes. 



FIRST LOVE. 



Ves, I know that you once were my lover, 
Bur that sort of thing has an end, 
And though love and its transports are ove?. 
You know you can still be — my friend : 
I was young, too, and foolish, remember; 
(Did you ever hear John Hardy sing ?) 
It was then, the fifteenth of November, 
And this is the end of the Spring I 

You complain that you are not weil-treated 
By my suddenly altering so ; 
Can I help it ? — you're very conceited, 
If you think yourself equal to Joe. 
Don't kneel at my feet, I implore you ; 
Don't write on the drawings you bring ; 
Don't ask me to say, " I adore you," 
For, indeed, it is now no such thing. 

I confess, when at Bognor we parted, 
I swore that I worshipped you then — 
That I was a maid broken-hearted, 
And you the most charming of men. 
I confess, when I read your first letter, 

272 



FIRST LOVE. 2'"3 

I blotted your name with a tear — 

But, oh. ! I was young — knew no better, 

Could I tell that I'd meet Hardy here ? 

How dull you are grown ! how you worry, 
Repeating my vows to be true — 
It' I said so, I told you a story, 
Fnr I love Hardy better than you ! 
Yes ! my fond heart has fixed on another, 
(I sigh so whenever he's go7ie,) 
I shall always love you — as a Irolher. 
But my heart is John Hardy's alon«. 
18 



SONNETS. 



SONNET I. 



ON SiEINQ 'R^ EUST OF THE YOUNG ?KINCEfS 
DE MOA'TFORT. 

(In the studio of Bartolini, at Florence.) 



fc .VEET marble ! didst thou merely represent, 

In lieu of her on whom our glances rest, 
Some common loveliness, — we were content, 

As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd ; 
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem 

So like HER bright and intellectual face, 
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream ; 

For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace, 
The light which plays beneath that shadowy 
brow, 
Like sunshine on the fountains of the south,—' 
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate 
glow, — 
The smile which hovers round that angel- 
mouth : 

274 



SONNETTS. 275 

No ! such the form o'er which Pygmahon 
sigh'd — 

Too fair to be complete while soul was still de- 
nied ! 



SONNET TL 
RAPHAEL. 



Bless'd wert thou, whom Death, and not 
Decay, 

Bore from the world on swift and shadowy 
wings, 
Ere age or weakness dimm'd one brilliant ray 

Of thy rapt spirit's high imaginings I 
While yet thy heart was full of fervid love, 

And thou wert haunted by resistless dreams 
Of all in earth beneath, or Heaven above, 

On which the light ot beauty richest gleams, 
Dead, but not deathlike, wert thou borne along, 

Silent and cold, oh thou that didst combine 
Sculpture, and painting, and the gift of song ; 

While on thy brow, and on that work divine* 
Porn with thee, glow'd from thine Italian sky, 
A. light whose glory spoke of immortality ! 

*Tlie celebrated picture of the Transfiguration (at 
whicli Raphael is said to have worked the evening he- 
fore his death) was borne at the bier-head in tiie pro 
cession of his funeral. 



SONNET III. 
THE FOKNARINA. 



And bless' d was she thou lovedst, for whose 
sake 
Thy wit did veil in fanciful disguise 
The answer which thou wertcompell'd to make 
To Rome's High Priest, and call'd her then 

"Thine Eyes;"* 
Tho' of her life obscure there is no trace, 
Save where its thread with thy bright history 
twines, — 
Tho' all we know of her be that sweet face 
Whose nameless beauty from thy canvass 
shines, — 
Dependant still upon her Raphael's fame, 

And but recorded by her low degree, 
As one who had in life no higher claim 

Than to be painted and be loved by thee ; — 
Yet would I be forgot, as she is now. 
Once to have press' d my lips on that seraphic 
brow I 

* Leo X., visiting; Raphael in his studio, and seeing 
there the Fornarina, asked who and what she was? 
thf painter replied, " Son ■ i miei occhi." 

276 



SONNET JV. 



Be frank with me, and I ar .ept my lot ,' 

Rut deal not with me f a grieving child. 
Who for the loss of that hich he hath not 

Is by a show of kindn ss thus beguiled. 
Raise not for me, from its enshrouded tomb, 

The ghostly likeness of a hope deceased ; 
Nor think to cheat the darkness of my doom 

By wavering doubts how far thou art released : 
This dressing Pity in the garb of Love, — 

This effort of the heart to seem the same, — 
These sighs and lingerings, (which nothing 
prove 

But that thou leav'st me with a kind of 
•shame,) — • 
Remind me more, by their most vain deceit, 
Of the dear loss of all which thou dost counter- 
feit. 



SONNET V. 



Because I know that there is that in me 

Of which thou shouldst be proud, and not 
ashamed, — 

377 



278 SONNETS. 

Because I feel one made thy choice should be 
Not even by fouls and slanderers rashly 
blame. — 
Because I fear, howe'er thy soul may strive 
Against the weakness of that inward pain, 
The falsehoods which my enemies contrive 

Not always seek lo wound thine ear in vain, — 
Therefore I sometimes weep, when I should 
smile, 
At all the vain frivolity and sin 
Which those who know me not (yet me re- 
vile) — 
My would-be judges — cast my actions in ; 
But else their malice hath nor sting nor smart— 
For I appeal from them, Beloved, to thine own 
heart ! 



SONNET VI. 



Where the red-wine cup floweth, there art thoiii 

Where luxury curtains out the evening sky; — 
Triumphant Mirth sits flush'd upon thy brow, 

And ready laughter lurks within thine eye 
Where the long day declineih, lone I sit, 

In idle thouglrt, my listless hands entwined, 
And, faintly smiling at remember'd wit. 

Act the scene over to my musing mind. 
In my lone dreams T hear thy eloquent voice 

I see the pleased attention of the throng, 



SONWETS. 279 

And bid my spirit in thy joy rejoice, 

Lest in love's selfishness I do thee wrono-. 
Ah ! midst that proud and mirtl-.Tul company 
Send'st thou no wandering thought to love and 
me? 



SONNET VII. 



Like an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs, 

With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye 
And a strong effort in his quivering wings, 

Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, — 
So my enamour'd heart, so long thine own. 

At length from Love's imprisonment set free, 
Goes forth into the open world alone, 

Glad and exulting in its liberty : 
But like that helpless bird, (confined so long, 

His weary wings have ins! all power to soar, 
Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song. 

And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once 
more, — 
So, from its former bonds released in vain, 
My heart still feels the weight of that remem- 
ber' d chain. 



SONNET VIII. 

TO MY BOOKS. 
« 

Silent companions of the lonely hour, 

Friends, who can never alter or forsake, 
Who for inconstant roving have no power, 

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,—* 
Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending 

Which worldly cares have in my spiri. 
wrought, 
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, 

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, 
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, 

Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime 

My native language spoke in friendly tone. 
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings, told so well. 



SONNET IX. 
TO THE COUNTESS HELENE ^AVADOWSKY. 



WnEiV our young Queen put on her rightfuJ 
crown 
In Gothic Westminster's long-hallow'd walls, 

, 280 



SONNETS. 281 

The eye upon no lovelier sight looked down 

Than thou, fair Russian ! Memory siill recalls 
The soft light of thy sapphire-color' d eyes, 

The rich twine of thy simply-braided hair, 
And the low murmur of the crowd's surprise 

To see thee pass along so strangely fair. 
Nor didst thou charm by looks and smiles 
alone, — 
Thy " broken Enghsh " had its share of grace, 
For something in thy accent and thy tone 

-So match'd the beauty of thy gentle face, 
We seem'd to hear our old familiar words 
Set to some foreign lute or harp's melodious 
chords ! 



SONNET X. 
TO TAGLIONI. 



Spirit of Grace, whose airy footsteps fall 
So lightly ! sure the looker-on must be 
Most dull of fancy who doth not recall 

Some sweet comparison to picture thee ! 
The while snow, drifting in its soundless show- 
ers, — 
The young bird resting on a summer-bough, — 
The south wind bending down the opening flow- 
ers, — 



282 SONNETS. 

The clear wave lifted with a gentle flow, — 
RippUng and bright, advancing and retreating, 

Curling around the rock its dancing spray. 
Like a fair child whose kiss of gentle greeting 
Woos a companion to make holiday, — 
Such are the thoughts of beauty round me shed, 
While pleased my eyes pursue thy light elastic 
tread. 



SONNET XI. 
THE WEAVER. 



Little ihey think, the giddy and the vain, 

Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, 
While the ligiit glossy silk or rustling train 

Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, 
How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom. 

Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, 
Pent in the confines of one narrow room, 

Where droops complainingly his cheerless 
head : — 
Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, 

Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling 
hands. 
The devious mingling of those various dyes 

Where wrougb* to answer Luxury's com- 
mands 



SONNETS. 283 

Bat the day cometh when the tired shall rest,— 
Where weary Lazarus leans his head oia Abra- 
ham's breast I 



SONNET Xir. 

" Ay ojuelos verdes, 
Ay los mis ojuelos. 
Ay hagan los cielos 
due de mi le acuerdes!"* 

Oh ! crystal eyes, in which my image lay 

While I was near, as in a fountain's wave 
Let it not in like manner pass away 

When I am gone ; tor I am Love's true slave, 
And in viy eyes thine image dwells enshrined, 

Like one who dazzled hat-h beheld the sun, 
So that to other beauty I am blind, 

And scarce distinguish what I gaze upon : 
Let it be thus with thee ! By all our vows, — 

By the true token-ring upon thy hand- — 
Let such remembrance as my worth allows 

Between thee and each bright temptation 
stand, — 
That I, in those clear orbs, on my return, 
As in the wave's green depth, my shadow may 
dis cern. 

*Seeilie notes to a beautiful volume ot' poems by 
Bryant, where this fragment of a Spanish ballad la 
given. 



SONNET XIII. 

TO MISS AUGUSTA COWELL. 

[To whom I owe the popularity of some of my favor 
ite ballads.] 



When thy light fingers touch th' obedient 
chords, 
Which, with a gentle murmur, low respond, 
Waiting the measure of the coming words 
From that sweet voice, so plaintive, sad, and 

fond, — 
Say does some winged Ariel, hovering near, 
Teach thee his island music note for note, 
That thou may'st copy with an echo clear 
Th' enchanted symphonies that round thee 
float ? 
Or do all Melodies, whilst thou art playing, 
(Each with the offering of some chorded 
sound,) 
On the low slanting sunbeam earthward stray- 
ing. 
Like meek subservient spirits wander round ; 
"^n Harmony's dim language asking thee 
Which of them, for the hour, shall thy attendant 
be? 

284 



SONNET XIV. 
PRINCESS MARIE OF WIRTEMBERO. 



White Rose of Bourbon's branch, so early 
faded ! 

When thou wert carried to thj^ silent rest, 
And every brow with heavy gloom was shaded, 

And every heart with fond regret oppress'd, — 
Sweet was the thought thy brother gave to him 

Who, far away on Ocean's restless wave, 
Could not behold those fair eyes closed and dim 

Nor see thee laid in thy untimely grave ! 
And, pitying him who yet thy loss must hear. — 

Whose absent breast a later p?.ng must feel, — 
Murmur'd, with touching sadness, by thy bier, 

" Adieu for me ! Adieu for Joivville /" 
Sweet was the thought, and tender was the heart 
Which thus remember'd all who in its love had 
part.* 



* The touching anecdote is told of the youthful Due 
d'Aumale, that, when the rnenibers oflhe royal family 
were bidding farewell to the sacred remains of the 
Princess Marie (the Prince de Joinville being then ab- 
sent with his ship,) he turned with a gush of so»-ow, 
and bid adieu, not only for himself, but in me name 
of his absent brother. 

285 






SONNET XV. 



Nor wert thou only by thy kmdred wept,— 

Young mother ! gentle daughter ! cherish' d 
wife ! 
Deep in her memory France hath fondly kept 

The records of thy unassuming life : 
Oft shall the statue heroine* bring to mind, — 

As pale it gleams beneath the light of day, 
In all the thoughtful grace by thee design'd — 

The worth and talent which have pass'd 
away I \ 

Oft shall the old, who see thy child pass by, 

Smiling and glad, despite his orphan'd lot. 
Look on him with a blessing and a sigh ; 

As one who suffers loss, yet feels it not, 
But lifting up his innocent eyes in prayer, 
Vaguely imagines Heaven, — foretaught that thou 

art THERE. 



*Tiio "taute of Joan of Arc, designed and executed 
by the Princess herself. 

286 



#1 



SONNET XVT. 

ON IIE^ AINO OF THE DEATH OF THE COUJVTESS OP 

BURLINGTON, 

[Inscribed, with deep and earnest sympathy, to her 
Motf.er, the Countess of Carlisle.] 



Since in the pleasant time of opening flower, 
That flower, Her life, was doom'd to fade 
away, — 
Since Her dear loss hath shaded lovely hours, 
And turn'd to mourning all the smiles of 
May,~ 
Henceforward when the warm soft breath of 
Spring 
Bids cowslips star the mf adows, thick and 
sweet ; 
When doves are in the green wood murmuring, 

And children wander with delighted feet ; 
When, by their own rich beauty downward 
bent, 
Soft Guelder-roses hang their tufts of snow, 
And purple lilacs yield a fragrant scent, 

287 






SONNETS. 



And bright laburnum droops its yellow 

bough ; — 
Let that Sprmg-time be welcomed with a sigh, 
For Her lamented sake, — who was so yoUJig to 

die! 



SONNET XVII. 



But since; in all that brief Life's narrow scope, 

No day pass'd by without some gentle deed, 

Let us not " mourn like them that have no 

hope," 

Though sharp the stroke, — and suddenly 

decreed ; 

For still, when Spring puts out her tender leaves. 

And nature's beauty seems to bud in vain, 
(Since then the yearning spirit doubly grieves 
With fresh remembrance of unconquer'd 
pain,) 
Returns the precious memory of all 

The grace and goodness of that creature fai~, 
Whom it pleased God in early days to call 
From this dim world of trouble, toil, and 
care, — 
And seldom is such bless'd conviction given 
That She we moin-n on Earth is now a Saint in 
Heaven ! 



THE END, 



:T "4 1945 






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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 526 268 9 



